


The Daemons that Live in the Dark

by HardNoctLife



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Blind Ignis Scientia, Canon Universe, Concentration Camps, Dark, Depression, Discrimination, Drinking, During Canon, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Gun Violence, Hate Crimes, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Minor Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia, Poor Prompto Argentum, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Racism, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The Author Regrets Everything, Torture, Violence, Whump, World of Ruin, Wrongful Imprisonment, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardNoctLife/pseuds/HardNoctLife
Summary: In the World of Ruin, tensions surrounding Niflheim run high. Prompto Argentum of all people understands—he hates the Empire too—but when members of the Kingsglaive begin to justify rounding up immigrants and segregating them from the general population in the name of "safety", he feels the need to take a stand.He quickly learns that there are more dangerous things lurking in the dark than just daemons.





	1. Everything Black

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a conversation I had with Mysterious Bean in which we lamented the lack of content surrounding the ten-year "World of Ruin" period in Final Fantasy XV, and I quote:
> 
> "I can't believe we didn't get any WOR stuff in game with the bros. Like really, how hard and miserable that must have been for them. And like all the hate against Niflheim, and how that could have played out really bad for Prom--getting jumped and all for his looks maybe. Such a prime playground for fics."
> 
> I couldn't get the idea out of my head that the darkness would have manifested itself in people in the worst of ways.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the World of Ruin, Prompto finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, singled out for his Niflheimian looks.

The burning in his legs couldn’t compare to the vice grip of panic tightening in his chest. Feet pounding the pavement faster than his racing heart, Prompto Argentum darted in and out of the back alleys of Lestallum, the sound of his pursuers drumming in his ears like a death march.

He knew that he shouldn’t have drank so much, but he had recklessly decided to drown his sorrows in booze—because he was a fucking adult. It sure beat the hell out of crying himself to sleep, even if his head would feel like it was splitting in two the next morning. He had caught sight of the surly group of men in the corner of the dive bar, but decided to down a few more shots anyway, ignoring their pointed glares and angry whispers in favor of focusing on the burning in the back of his throat and fuzziness surrounding his thoughts.

If he strained, certain words rose above the pulsing music, jagged and accusatory.

_Niff_

_Bastard_

_Traitor_

They’d singled him out for his faux-hawk of white-blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, the tell-tale sign of a Niflheimian, and he could hardly hold their misplaced rage against them. Everyone wanted someone to blame for the damage done to the world—for the daemons that ran rampant, for the lives destroyed, and for taking away the hope Noctis had once given them.

He hated the Empire’s guts too.

Part of him _wanted_ the fight, and in spite of knowing better than to taunt them, Prompto leaned heavy over the bar, tattoo-sleeved arms flexing with the added weight.

“Hey Claudia, buy my friends over there a round on me,” he had quipped, motioning to the corner booth where they lurked. The attractively dark-haired woman had shaken her head disapprovingly, but hadn’t provided him with any counsel. Prompto had become a regular at the Wet Whistle once the darkness fell. In fact, all of the bars had gotten a little busier. Partly because Lestallum was one of the few safe havens left in Lucis, but also because people had a lot of feelings they wanted to numb right about now, himself included.

There was no telling when—or _if_ —the sun would ever return. It was fucking depressing as hell.

As soon as Prompto slapped the gil down on the counter, he slid off his barstool, stumbling a little as the room tilted. He grabbed onto a nearby table to recalibrate, then jutted his chin up in the direction of the men who were watching him. Four stony-eyed faces stared back, lips pressing into thin lines at his brazen greeting.

Grinning wildly, Prompto pushed through the door and out into the street. The perpetual night made it difficult to know what time it was, but judging by the weighted silence and lack of people strolling down the boulevard it had to be early morning. Right before ‘sunrise’ if Prompto had to guess. 

The blond ran a hand through his hair as he oriented himself, feeling along the buzzed sides of his skull as he tried to focus. Once he had his bearings (or he thought he did, anyway) he started to walk, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He felt warm despite the evening chill, head swimming pleasantly.

When he was almost to the end of the street, he heard it—the _thud-thud_ of multiple footsteps getting louder.

He knew instinctively that it was the group that had been watching him, and he picked up his pace as he rounded the corner, not quite jogging. Trying to move quickly was a challenge for his intoxicated brain though, and he wound up getting turned around, balking when he came to a dead end.

Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of four shadows drawing nearer and felt his heart jump into his ribcage, muscles tensing. Prompto reached back, feeling for the cold pressure of his gun tucked beneath his clothes.

He debated. Four against one on a good day wasn’t great odds, but Prompto knew his reaction time and depth perception were shit right now. He was just as likely to shoot himself in the foot as he was to hit a moving target.

_You gotta run._

Steeling himself against the nausea sloshing in his abdomen, Prompto took off, zipping past one of the men before they realized what he was doing.

“Shit—he’s fast,” a gruff voice grunted.

The _thud_ - _thud_ became loud slapping as the group started to chase after him.

“Hold up blondie, we just wanna talk!” one leered, followed by a cackle that made a thrill of terror shoot down Prompto’s spine.

“Come back here bitch,” another growled.

Prompto’s breathing became ragged as he rushed to stay ahead of the men while simultaneously trying to keep his stomach from ejecting all of its contents.

_Just a little further—_

He recognized the street he turned down as one that would take him past the EXINERIS power plant and felt a flicker of hope, which immediately died as his foot hit an uneven spot and his toe caught on the pavement, sending him flying.

Out of instinct, he put his hands out to catch himself, arms scraping and bones jarring as he landed with a _wham_! Groaning loudly, he rolled, trying to push himself up, but his arms gave out, pain shooting from his palms to his shoulders.

The footsteps came to an abrupt stop, Prompto glimpsing four pairs of boots as they came to surround him in a tight circle.

“Heya, guys—” before Prompto could finish, a hand was wrapping around his neck, dragging him violently to his feet. Prompto clawed at the pair of calloused hands, struggling to breathe, then felt all the fight rush out of him when the stranger slammed his back into a wall, ribs crackling like popcorn.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face around here,” he hissed. Prompto couldn’t make out his features in the shadows, the only light coming from the power plant as it poked over a row of buildings. Prompto didn’t need to see his face to know he was a mean-looking son of a bitch.

“We don’t welcome _your_ kind here,” another one added, drawing closer.

Later, Prompto would think back and wonder if it would have been better to just let them choke him into unconsciousness, but in the moment his Crownsguard training kicked in and he put all of his failing strength into a counter-attack, arms shooting forward to take out the man’s elbow.

With his hold loosened, Prompto ducked down and drove a knee in-between the assailant’s legs, a strangled scream letting him know his attack was effective. Prompto was reaching back, hand wrapping around his gun, but just as he feared, his sloppy state made him clumsy and slow, and he watched with dismay as his pistol got knocked from his hands by one of the other drunkards and skidded out of sight.

Everything else happened too quickly for Prompto to follow. All he knew is that every hit sent a new flash of pain searing through his body, head smacking hard on the ground as his feet were taken out from under him. He tried to scream—to defend himself by putting his hands up—but his vision was blurred and spotty and he just ended up getting his arms wrenched back as fists flew at him from every direction.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take much more, the onslaught suddenly stopped, and Prompto strained to open his eyes, the swelling already accumulating in his face making the effort painful. There was something warm and wet dripping down his face, and he tasted the metallic acidity of blood slide over his tongue.

_Is this how I’m going to die? After all this time?_

It seemed anti-climactic considering the daemons he had gone up against—then again, he was way more terrified of humans than he was of any beast.

“Fucking Niff,” someone spat, and Prompto recognized the voice as belonging to the man who he had nailed in the groin. The shadow loomed over him now, and he felt two strong hands lifting him from beneath his armpits, turning him around so that his face pressed excruciatingly into the same wall.

 _Just kill me,_ Prompto wanted to say, but all he could do was groan, every muscle and bone screaming for an end to the pain.

“Someone needs to put you in your place.” The man’s voice had gone low, and Prompto froze when he felt a hand reaching around his waist to unbuckle his belt, hairs on the nape of his neck standing up like a startled cat. His attacker undid the fly on Prompto’s jeans, yanking his pants down to his knees.

Terror gripping him, Prompto experienced a surge of adrenaline and began to flail, kicking his legs and fighting against the arms that held him.

A quick _WHAM_ face-first into the wall made him cry out, blood spitting onto the brick. Prompto shut his eyes as he slumped, the world spinning like he was on a tilt-a-whirl.

“You fight and you’re gonna have a worse time,” the man stated. Prompto could hear his friends laughing in the background like he had told a funny joke.

Prompto inhaled, something between a sob and a curse, and placed his hands against the wall to steady himself as he felt a firm body press against his.

The man knocked his knees wide and Prompto nearly collapsed as he was overwhelmed with fear. One hand gripped into the tuft of hair on the top of his head and the blond clenched his jaw hard as he tried to muffle the scream rising in his chest.

 _Just hold still. It will be over soon_. He tried to focus on anything other than the pressure in his ass—the roughness of the bricks, the blood pooling at his feet—

_Noctis._

His brain was jumping from one thing to another, unable to settle or comprehend what was happening.

The man’s strokes became more aggressive and Prompto felt himself began to cry, shoulders shaking. More laughter echoed from behind him.

Then came the muffled sound of voices, words lost in the white noise buzzing in Prompto’s mind.

He was numb and ashamed. When had he become so weak? A year ago, he was running through the countryside with Ignis, Gladio, and Noctis, the four of them unstoppable, free to come and go as they pleased. They’d toppled behemoths, summoned gods, and traveled the world— _together_.

It seemed like a dream now.

Prompto prayed for it to end. Through the hazy agony his eyes came to focus on the horizontal scars along his wrists, faded beneath his tattoos—a time when he had tried to end it himself. That had been his lowest point, but this might top it, he thought bitterly.

The man eventually finished, but instead of feeling relieved, Prompto’s shame compounded and he bent over, retching as his attacker stepped away. With one shaky hand, he grabbed for the hem of his pants, pulling them back up.

“The next time we see you, we’ll kill you.”

Prompto’s breath hitched at the threat and he held air in his lungs long after their footsteps faded into the night, only sliding to the ground when he could no longer hold himself upright. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, body suddenly overcome by tremors as if it sought to reject the violation it had just experienced. Rolling onto his back, he blinked up at the night sky, unable to see the stars through the smog from the city lights.

Prompto closed his eyes.

* * *

He could smell bacon frying accompanied by the sizzling pop of oil in a pan, and Prompto squinted awake, the puffiness of his skin making it difficult to see. The world gradually became clearer the longer he waited, and he took a minute just to watch the ceiling fan make several lazy cycles before looking around.

It was a small room, barely big enough for the twin-sized mattress he found himself lying on, a thin sheet pulled up to his chest. The blinds over the only window were drawn against the outside, one standing lamp in the corner the sole source of light. A glance at the bedside table revealed various elixirs, potions, and bandages strewn haphazardly, as if someone had gathered them in a rush.

His head was pounding, making the distant sounds of someone rummaging through cabinets seem louder than they actually were. The events of the previous evening came back to him when something slammed aggressively on the other side of the closed door, causing him to flinch. Feeling suddenly sick, Prompto tried to push himself into a seated position, only to find that just the slightest movement sent shooting pain through his entire body. He settled back down with a groan. The gunner was at the mercy of whoever had scooped him up off the pavement. 

When the door eventually opened, he lifted his gaze to the familiar face and sighed.

_Well, so much for avoiding embarrassment._

Aranea Highwind leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms, wearing a loose t-shirt and thin cotton pants that hugged her in all the right places. “Hey shortcake, how are you feeling?”

“Like death,” Prompto croaked. “Did Claudia call you?”

Aranea nodded, sweeping her silver hair over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist. “Yep. Said you looked like you might be in some trouble.” Her usually hard and sarcastic tone had gone soft.

Prompto hated the undertone of pity in her words.

“You know me. Trouble is my middle name.” Prompto’s joke fell flat, and for a second, the only sound was the whirring of the fan blades overhead.

“What happened?” she wondered, eyes scanning him. For some reason it felt invasive, and Prompto found himself looking away to avoid making eye contact. He really, _really_ wanted a shower, but there was no way he was about to ask her to help him.

“Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.” Prompto’s throat constricted as flashes of memories and sensations poured through him, his skin crawling. Aranea wasn’t the kind to butt into anyone’s personal business, but she had already saved Prompto from himself once and recognized the deflection for what it was—a defense mechanism.

“I called Ignis.”

Startled, Prompto’s eyes snapped back to Aranea as he frowned, regretting it instantly for how it made his face ache. 

“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded. Aranea tsked, moving her hands to her hips indignantly.

“I thought you were _dead_ , you idiot.” That made him quiet and Aranea rolled her eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “I made breakfast. You hungry?”

He wasn’t really, but knew that he probably needed to eat _something_ , otherwise he’d regret it later.

“I can eat.”

Aranea ignored Prompto’s protests and helped him into the kitchen, and he noticed that she had removed his clothes at some point during the night, dressing him in an oversized t-shirt and shorts. It took some time to get him to the table, one arm slung over Aranea’s shoulders as they took micro-steps forward. Walking hurt, but sitting hurt more, the throbbing of his backside unleashing a whole new wave of nausea that had him staring down at his bacon and eggs ready to hurl. 

_Will this pain ever go away?_

He ended up taking two bites before shoving the plate aside, but Aranea didn’t comment on his lack of appetite.

“Feel free to stay here if you want,” she offered. “It looks like you could use a little bit of time to get back on your feet.”

Prompto knew she was just trying to be helpful, but something in her words rubbed him the wrong way.

“I’ll be fine,” he claimed, tone dropping unintentionally. She shrugged as she swallowed the last of her food, getting up to gather their plates.

“Ignis is going to drop by. Not telling you how to live your life, but he’ll probably appreciate knowing that you’re all right. I’m heading out, but help yourself to the place while I’m gone.” Prompto didn’t answer, and Aranea didn’t push it, disappearing into a room off the kitchen. He waited until she changed and left before attempting to push himself into a standing position.

It took him longer than he would have liked to make it into the bathroom as he had to rely heavily on walls and furniture to support his weight. When he finally made it and switched on the light, he inhaled sharply as he caught sight of his own reflection.

He hardly recognized himself. There was a large gash across his forehead and nose that had been stitched, undoubtedly by Aranea, and dark markings beneath his eyes, eyelids and cheeks swollen. Removing his shirt revealed worse bruising, trailing from under one armpit all along his ribs and down to his hip before wrapping around his back on the opposite side. There were spots of purple over his arms, and scrapes on his knees and hands from where he had fallen.

It looked like he had gotten in a fight with a behemoth and lost—and it felt about ten times worse.

Once he was able to tear his eyes away from the mirror, Prompto worked on filling the bathtub and easing himself into the water, moaning as his muscles alternated between contracting and relaxing. He sat there until the scorching liquid had grown cold, letting his mind wander.

Any time he shut his eyes, all he could see were his hands pressed to a brick wall, blood tinting the image red.

A gentle knock made him jump, heart going from zero to a hundred as water sloshed onto the floor. “Prompto?” Ignis’s gentle inquiry almost made him break down in tears.

 _Pull yourself together_.

He cleared his throat and lifted the drain cord as he reached over for a towel. “Yeah, Iggy, I’m in here.” The door swung aside and Prompto looked up with a sad smile at his friend, overwhelmed by nostalgia as his gaze settled on the large scar across the man’s face. Ignis set his walking cane (which doubled as a weapon—Prompto had seen him use it quite effectively) by the door and reached out until he found the toilet, placing the seat down so he could use it as a chair. Even being blind, Ignis still moved with grace and poise, a force to be reckoned with.

Wincing as he got up, Prompto began to dry himself, body quivering with the strain of positioning himself on the edge of the tub. Ignis’s head cocked slightly to indicate he was listening, and Prompto bit back any noises that might betray the pain he was in.

“Aranea informed me you were involved in an altercation.”

Prompto couldn’t help but laugh. _Altercation_ sounded much better than how he would have described it. Ignis looked like he was waiting for an explanation, but Prompto wasn’t quick to offer one. There was no nice way of saying _yeah, I got the shit beat out of me—oh, and then I was raped_. Prompto found himself staring down into his hands, emotions stirring like a storm that threatened to destroy him from the inside out. 

“Prompto?”

“I’m fine.”

Silence.

Ignis shifted, crossing one long leg over the other, the tip of his boots brushing over the raw skin on Prompto’s knees. He whimpered reactively and Ignis paused, removing his gloves.

“You were quite badly hurt.”

It was a statement, not a question, and it left Prompto wondering how much Aranea had told him.

When Ignis placed a hand on Prompto’s knee, just below the towel now slung around his waist, he didn’t shy away even though the gesture made his anxiety spike. It had been months since they had last seen each other, and there was something in him that craved that familiar closeness they once shared. Prompto watched with wide-eyed wonder as the blind man walked his fingers, barely more than a caress, up and down his body, frowning any time he came across a pocket of swelling or a disruption in the skin.

It took some time, but Ignis finally reached Prompto’s face, gasping audibly when his palm flitted over his black eyes and the raised gashes, pausing briefly over each stitch as if to count them.

“Who did this?” Ignis’s tone was sharper than his dagger’s edge, teeming with righteous anger. Prompto turned his head away—he didn’t want Ignis to feel the tears that were now rolling down his cheeks.

“Prompto.” More insistent this time.

The blond cringed, remembering that voice well. It was Ignis’s ‘advisor’ voice, often used to scold Noctis— _back then_. It could have been because the prince hadn’t eaten his vegetables, or something more serious, like leaving his blind side open to attack during a battle, but it never failed to grab everyone’s attention, and it had the same effect on Prompto now.

“Just some guys at the bar. They…were using Imperial slurs. Probably singled me out for my looks,” Prompto muttered. For a second he thought Ignis would pull away, but instead he leaned in, their noses nearly touching. Although he knew Ignis couldn’t see, it unnerved Prompto to the point where he had to resist the urge to jerk backwards. Ignis’s lips pursed as if he wanted to speak.

Prompto inhaled, breath uneven.

Finally, Ignis ran a palm over the short hairs on the side of Prompto’s head, finding the knot on the back of his skull before letting his hand come to rest at the nape of the blond man’s neck. Prompto’s eyes fluttered closed and heat flashed through his chest.

He wasn’t ready for the sheer amount of emotional pain a simple touch would bring him, but something inside him had shattered the moment Ignis had gotten too close, and he was quickly losing control. Ignis hadn’t been named advisor to the crown prince for nothing. Even without his vision, he could see right through him.

“I’m taking you home with me, and I won’t hear any ifs, ands, or buts about it.” 

A sob escaped Prompto’s lips as he slumped forward, forehead digging into Ignis’s shoulder. His wails echoed against the tiles as he let go of the tension he had been holding. Ignis wrapped his arms around Prompto and pulled him close.

Tears fell uncontrolled from the blond’s eyes onto Ignis’s slacks, darkening the fabric in places, and all Prompto could see was his own blood splattering on the ground to the sound of harsh laughter—a razor blade running across his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The chapter title comes from the song "Everything Black" by Unlike Pluto  
> \- WOR Prompto has two full sleeves of tattoos and an under cut--because of course he would. The sleeves might be described later on, but I like to leave some of it up to the reader's interpretation. You can read my one shot about Prompto cutting his hair here: [ Buzz [Cut it Out, Cut it Off]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875979)  
> \- "Claudia" is used for the bartender's name as a nod to my friend who got me into the FFXV fandom. She also appears in ["You're My Cup of Coffee" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794571/chapters/46864000)as a barista.  
> \- "...he blinked up at the night sky, unable to see the stars through the smog from the city lights. Prompto closed his eyes." If you remember that 'Noctis Lucis' literally means 'night light' in Latin, this adds an entire new layer of angst to the situation. (You're welcome.)


	2. When I Watch the World Burn...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After surviving his assault, Prompto is taken to Ignis’s apartment, but a startling development draws a wedge between the old friends.

When the long night fell, Ignis had immediately begun coordinating with local politicians and the remaining members of the Kingsglaive to organize relief efforts and safe havens for the people of Lucis. He felt like it was his responsibility to act on Noctis’s behalf in his absence and had never once doubted that the True King would return to save the world from the Starscourge that plagued Eos, squashing any doubts that circulated among the people.

It was his steadfast resolve that kept everyone going, even when the darkness got to be oppressive.

Ignis had set up residence in Lestallum, provided with a permanent residence by EXINERIS’s executives so he could better serve the Glaives and the other organizations that now used the city as its home base. Most places outside of the city limits weren’t inhabitable anymore, forcing a diverse group of people into a small space.

Some days tensions ran so high that it felt like a powder keg ready to explode.

Prompto had spent the better part of the past two years in Hammerhead, helping Cindy and Cid around the shop or coordinating with hunters on missions. The fateful night of his assault, he had been visiting Lestallum on an errand. Takka’s diner had been running low on ingredients, and Lestallum was the only place still able to grow crops thanks to the indoor greenhouses that had been built there. He would have left to go back the next day.

Instead, he laid up in Ignis’s apartment for two weeks, delivering his apologies to Takka in a phone call. Ignis provided Prompto with everything he needed so he wouldn’t have to venture outside, even driving to and from Hammerhead one day to gather some of his clothes and personal items.

Prompto wasn’t in a rush to walk the dark streets again any time soon. Just the short trip from Aranea’s to Ignis’s residence on the far side of town had the blond checking his shoulder every couple of steps, vision tunneling as he broke out in a cold sweat. When they had finally arrived at their destination, Prompto had needed a few minutes to collect himself, locking himself in the bathroom to hide from Ignis.

Gladio had called while they were having dinner, but Prompto didn’t have the courage to answer, letting it go to voicemail. He listened to the message before bed, Gladio’s recognizable bass booming over the small speaker.

“Yo, Prompto. Heard from Aranea that you got your ass kicked. I know we trained you better than that—you better pull yourself together.” Prompto sighed as the recording continued. _Typical Gladio_. “Sorry, I’m still out at Angelgard with some of the Glaives, otherwise I’d stop by and catch up. I know you’re in good hands with Iggy, but take care of yourself, all right?”

That first night, he woke up screaming.

“Prompto?!” Ignis had bust into the room with daggers in hand, poised for a fight. He’d memorized the layout of the home, eliminating the need for his cane while indoors, and he faced in Prompto’s direction, listening for any sign of an intruder.

Gasping for air, Prompto had managed to spit out, “Fine—I’m fine—just a bad dream.”

Ignis didn’t set his daggers down, even after he came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I promise, I will not allow any harm to befall you,” Ignis swore. There was the unspoken understanding that it was to make up for the fact that they had all failed to protect the one person who mattered most.

Ignis had waited until Prompto’s breathing changed from fast and shallow to slow and deep, finally setting his daggers aside to curl fingers in and out of what remained of his blond hair. Rhythmic like the waves of the ocean, it lulled him back into sleep.

From that point on, Ignis found excuses to be around Prompto more, and the sharpshooter got to witness how the former advisor lived his now solitary life.

Leave it to Ignis to turn a disability into a strength. Everything in the man’s home was meticulously organized, and Ignis could move through the kitchen with ease, pulling ingredients and cooking utensils out of cabinets and drawers with little to no hesitation. He later explained to Prompto that Holly had been the one to help him set up a voice activated assistant throughout the apartment. By simply speaking, Ignis could do an assortment of tasks, ranging from turning on his TV to having his email recited out loud. Most things were labeled and could be read by quickly scanning it with his phone, making it easy for him to maintain his autonomy.

Prompto liked to watch Ignis cook—he always had—but especially during those two weeks. Something about it was therapeutic, helping him to process the crushing depression and feeling of worthlessness that followed his ‘altercation’ with the strangers from the bar, and it brought to mind simpler times when they slept under the sky and traveled the open road, just the four of them.

And _damn_ , he had missed eating Iggy’s food. It tasted like home.

Prompto woke up feeling marginally better on that fourteenth day. The swelling in his face had completely receded thanks to Ignis’s dutiful care. Every night before they went to sleep he’d serve Prompto a potion and hand him an ice pack, rubbing a healing salve over his wounds ( _so they wouldn’t scar_ , he said).

“Iggy, people dig scars. _Obviously_. I mean, look at how popular _you_ are.” The comment had earned him a rare smile that he tried to take a mental snapshot of. Smiles were few and far between.

The bruises were slower to resolve, staining his skin an ugly yellow-green color as they got closer to disappearing, and he still got the occasional pain in his ribs if he breathed too deep, but it was tolerable.

“I look like I went through a blender,” Prompto had described to Ignis one morning, making his friend snort his coffee as he tried to contain his laughter. It was nice to hear him laugh.

The end of the second week, Prompto had wandered into the living room to find the TV serving as background noise while Ignis made breakfast. Channels were limited in their new world, but there were still frequent news updates, and Ignis had gotten into the habit of putting it on as soon as he got up. Prompto hadn’t meant to watch, but the food wasn’t ready yet, so he grabbed a mug of coffee and sank into the couch to stay out of Ignis’s way.

The news anchor was just finishing a short segment about daemon patterns in the north, reiterating road advisories for any hunters who happened to be on the move. When the story ended, the feed shifted to show a man dressed in a Glaive’s uniform, his thick eyebrows knitted together in a severe expression.

Prompto frowned, unsure why he looked familiar, racking his brain as the reporter posed a question.

“With an increase in daemon activity, there has recently been an influx of immigrants flooding the Lucian borders. What has been the Kingsglaive’s response to this added stress placed on our already limited resources?”

“Well, it’s really a simple, Linda. Imperialists pose a very real threat to our people as they always have. Niflheimians may claim to be seeking shelter, but we have no idea what their real intentions are, and we cannot put our citizens at risk by providing them refuge. For this reason, there are talks of opening the former Imperial bases in Leide, Duscae, and Cleigne and turning them into holding areas for non-Lucian citizens until something can be done.”

Prompto’s frown deepened as he listened, unease building the more he stared into the man’s dark eyes. He didn’t know the Glaive’s name, but there was something striking about him, his gravelly voice releasing a flock of butterflies inside his stomach.

“What will be done in the event refugees are found to be Imperialist operatives or sympathizers?”

There was a flash of something cruel in the way the soldier’s mouth turned up at the edges. When he laughed abruptly, Prompto froze, heart stopping.

_Oh gods._

“We, as protectors of the peace, will neutralize any and all threats to our great nation—for hearth and home.”

_Oh gods—oh gods, it can’t be—_

Without meaning to, Prompto lost the grip on his coffee mug and it shattered on the hardwood, an exclamation point to the ongoing interview. Ignis yelped from the kitchen in alarm.

“What’s the matter? What happened?”

Prompto’s brain didn’t register the question. All he could think about was how the unknown Glaive on the screen was the same man who had assaulted him, his laugh the same one that haunted his dreams.

The same man that was now heading up a program to round up foreign blond-haired, blue-eyed men and women—people like _him_.

_The next time we see you, we’ll kill you._

Prompto placed his head in his hands and pressed his palms forcefully against his eyelids—wishing he could physically tear the images flashing behind them from his mind.

* * *

“Prompto, you need to relax,” Ignis begged. He could hear the frantic back and forth ‘pitter-patter’ of Prompto’s feet as he paced in the kitchen, voice climbing an octave in his distress.

“ _Relax?_ The person who attacked me is a Glaive!” _The man who raped me_. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but it was more than enough. “And now the same guy is rounding up all the Niflheimians and putting them in camps? What the hell is this?!” Prompto slammed his palms onto the marble countertop and Ignis tensed from the ‘slap!’ that reverberated, discordant against his eardrums.

“It’s merely a safety precaution—” Prompto gaped, scoffing.

“Wait—you _knew_ about this?” the shrill accusation pierced the air. Prompto’s pulse was pounding in his temples.

“Prompto, you’re a former member of the Kingsglaive and a citizen of Lucis, you needn’t worry—” The reminder of his past life stung more than Prompto cared to admit.

“Oh yeah? You think that matters to _that_ guy?” Prompto was waving his hands, wishing Ignis could see the snarl that contorted his face. He couldn’t stand that he was so calm and collected, like this was somehow normal. “If that guy does what he says, those people are as good as dead. You saw— _felt_ —what he did to me!”

Ignis heaved a sigh. If he had still worn glasses, he probably would have pushed them higher on the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Are you sure it’s him?” There was the slightest hint of skepticism in Ignis’s voice, and it nearly pushed Prompto over the edge.

“Do you know who he is?” Prompto pressed.

“The man in the interview? No, I didn’t hear his voice.” Prompto’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t believe what Ignis was saying.

“Can you find out who he is?” His questions were flying out of his mouth, barbed and dangerous. Ignis shook his head.

“Prompto, you aren’t thinking clearly. Take a moment to calm yourself so—”

“I _AM_ calm!”

Ignis quieted as Prompto made a high-pitched sound of frustration, resisting the urge to throw something across the room.

“Well, I for one am not gonna stick around and wait for someone to come and take me away. I’m out of here.” Prompto stomped over to the door, yanking his boots on as Ignis patiently followed, still holding out hope that he might listen to reason.

“Come now, Prompto, where are you going? Please, let’s talk about this rationally.” The sharpshooter’s jaw clenched as he bit back an angry retort that he would certainly regret.

“Anywhere but here,” Prompto hissed. He glanced up to see pain flicker across Ignis’s face, but he was too upset to care. He spaced his next words evenly, as steady as if his finger were resting on a trigger. “I thought we were friends.”

The statement was a shot—and Prompto never missed.

Ignis exhaled vigorously and didn’t bother to defend himself. For some reason, the man’s silence only served to fan Prompto’s rage, and he stormed out as soon as he had pulled his laces tight, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

“What do you mean no one gets in or out?” Prompto yelled at the guard who stood in front of a barrier blocking the entrance to the parking lot, an area where it was common for people to solicit hunters for rides for a small fee. Heads of passers-by turned to identify the source of the shouting, but Prompto’s anger was burning white-hot, and he didn’t give a damn who heard.

“I have my orders, sir. The blockade is in effect until further notice,” the boy said firmly.

“ _Whose_ orders?”

The soldier clutched the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip defensively. “The Marshal, sir. It’s for everybody’s safety.”

 _It’s already started,_ Prompto thought worriedly.

Prompto eyed the boy in front of him. He couldn’t be older than eighteen. They were roughly the same size, but the blond knew he had experience on his side. It wouldn’t be difficult to get past him, but it would mean traveling to Hammerhead on foot— _alone_. Even Prompto could recognize a suicide mission when he saw one, and even though he was in a dark place mentally, he didn’t have a death wish— _yet_ , anyway— so he backed down, irritated.

_The Marshal, huh?_

Ducking between buildings, Prompto reached for his phone, dialing a number he hadn’t used since he had been forced to quit the Kingsglaive— _mentally unfit to serve_ had been stamped across his discharge papers, his suicide attempt described in painstaking detail in the report.

The file was still shoved in the bottom of a desk drawer somewhere in his tiny caravan in Hammerhead, gathering dust.

To Prompto’s surprise, Cor Leonis actually answered.

“Prompto?”

He slowed to a stop, realizing he hadn’t given much thought to what he was going to say. 

“Hello?”

“Hey—Marshal, it’s me.” _Well duh, he knows it’s you._ “I was going to ask if there was any way you’d let me leave Lestallum. I’ve got business in Hammerhead.” There was an uncomfortable silence that made Prompto’s stomach feel like he had just jumped off a cliff and he hurried to lean against a streetlight, taking refuge in its fluorescent glow.

“The cities are on lockdown until we can secure our borders. Daemon activity has spiked—”

“Is it true that the Glaive is rounding up non-Lucians?” Prompto interrupted, not possessing the self-control or circumspection to wait for a natural opening in the conversation.

“It’s not that simple,” Cor began, and the sinking feeling Prompto had been feeling intensified.

_Not him too._

“We’ve been experiencing a sudden influx of refugees that has jeopardized our resources and transport routes. While we’d like to help everyone, it’s not altogether practical. Our job is to secure Lucis first, then see to our neighbors. Keeping people separated is an easy way to see the size of the need and ration supplies—that’s all.”

As Prompto listened, his knees grew weak and he clung to the lamp post for support, off balance.

_Noctis would never stand for this._

“Who’s overseeing the relocation?” The question came out aggressive— _feral._

A pause.

“Prompto, how have you been lately?” There was that same fucking _pity_ that Aranea had shown him after his attack, and Prompto squeezed the phone so tight that he feared it might shatter in his hand.

“Fine.” Something held him back from telling Cor the truth, but internally he was screaming.

_No, I’m not fucking fine—and I won’t be until that Glaive is dead._

“It will be safer to stay here for the time being—sorry, Prompto. You know I’m always available to talk if you have further questions. Good to hear from you.”

Prompto made some non-committal response and Cor bid him farewell, the line cutting out. He stood there for some time longer, mind reeling from the injustice of it all.

“If you want something done right, do it yourself,” Prompto muttered under his breath. Jamming hands into pockets he strolled into the night, daring the shadows to jump out at him.

This time, he’d be ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The rhetoric surrounding the justification of internment camps for foreigners in this fic is scarily similar to the reasoning being used in the United States today regarding illegal immigrants. I took a lot of real life inspiration for writing some of the dialogue.  
> \- This chapter and the following chapters' titles come from a lyric in the Bastille song, "Doom Days," which was a source of inspiration for me while writing. ("When I watch the world burn all I think about is you.")


	3. ...All I Think About is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto's plan to enact revenge on his assailant falls through, landing him in a precarious situation.

Prompto had positioned himself on top of one of the buildings near the Glaive’s basecamp on the outskirts of town. The never-ending night made it easy to take cover without being seen, and he spent the better part of an afternoon observing soldiers as they came and went, eyes peeled for one in particular.

He was starting to think he must have missed him, but then there he was, materializing out of a large black SUV—just as big and brawny as the shadow he had cast in the dark. The sudden ghostly sensation of a firm body jamming against his backside made Prompto twitch nervously. A small group of Glaives walked alongside their leader, reminding Prompto of a pack of wolves, smirks predatory in nature. Without a doubt, he was the one.

Prompto pulled out the gun he had brought, a modified assault rifle that Cid had custom-constructed upon request. It had taken some convincing to get the old man to make it for him at first.

_You sure ya can handle this puppy?_

They—he and Cindy—had been adamant about keeping all weapons out of his reach after the ‘incident,’ but within a few months’ time he had regained their trust and they started to allow him to blow off steam on the shooting range the hunters had built off the backside of the garage. At the time, he hadn’t thought then that he’d be using the weapon on anything other than daemons.

Now he took care to adjust his sights, zooming in as he tried to get a clear shot lined up. The man glowed white-green inside his night-vision lens and he took one deep inhale to try and calm his racing heart.

He heard a laugh carry up to him on a breeze and his hand began to tremble, requiring him to readjust his tripod as he accidentally knocked it askew. The sharpshooter knew it was likely he’d only get one shot so he couldn’t afford to rush. Prompto deliberated as the man who plagued his dreams loitered on the front steps, talking, unaware of the danger looming. There were too many people around though, and Prompto couldn’t pull the trigger in good conscience, cursing when the Glaive eventually disappeared into the building along with his posse.

He went home about an hour later when the man didn’t reemerge, deciding to rethink his strategy.

Prompto bided his time. 

His opportunity came unexpectedly, over a week later. After several failed attempts to find the Glaive alone, Prompt began to scour the news like a man possessed—TV, radio, even magazines—searching for any information regarding the mystery person, only to come up empty-handed. He considered going back to the Wet Whistle to ask Claudia if she knew anything about him, but just walking down the street near the bar made him freeze like an anak in headlights, fear preventing him from going any further.

He had been walking through the booths in Lestallum’s marketplace, looking for a quick and easy meal, when he nearly stumbled directly into the Glaive. Prompto had glanced up at the last second from the display he had been studying to see him at the adjacent booth, dressed in civilians’ clothing, unassuming in his faded jeans and long sleeved shirt pulled taut over his muscled torso.

They were so close that Prompto could reach out and touch him, and he quickly preoccupied himself with the vegetables piled high in the wicker basket on the table, recoiling subtly from the heat radiating off the man’s body. Pretending to pick out produce for purchase, Prompto listened as the stand’s attendant spoke.

“Find what you were looking for, Mal?”

Prompto was holding his breath, hand glued to a bell pepper as he looked everywhere except at the large man beside him.

“Of course—everything looks great as usual, thanks Furloch.” Prompto marveled at how a man so vicious could sound so… _normal_. Stalling for just a little longer, he waited until the Glaive named Mal paid for his ingredients and stepped away, tilting his head slightly to trace his trail through the rows of produce stands. He was heading for the alley leading away from the market and Prompto knew it was the perfect opportunity to catch him off guard.

 _Now’s my chance._

Trying not to attract any unwanted attention, Prompto adopted a leisurely pace as he pivoted to follow.

He began to sweat despite the cooler temperatures.

When the market was no longer visible, Prompto pulled his pistol from out of his inner jacket pocket where it was hidden, unlatching the safety.

The man paused, glancing down at something in his hands and Prompto stopped, partially hidden behind a dumpster.

 _Now—do it now_.

Prompt had killed things before. Daemons, magitek troopers, Imperials—but he’d never _hunted_ someone. Even though he knew he was justified in getting revenge, there was something about the whole situation that sickened him.

_I wonder what Noctis would say if he could see me now._

Things changed. _He_ had changed. He did what he needed to survive. 

When the Glaive started moving again, Prompto slid from the shadows, gun cocking. The man immediately froze, recognizing the sound immediately.

“Don’t move,” Prompto said, power behind the order. He was glad that his voice never wavered. The Glaive immediately put his hands up, grocery bag held on one side.

“Shooting a man in the back, huh?” he laughed, showing no sign of fear. Prompto hated him for how his stomach flipped in response.

“Better or worse than jumping a drunk man?” Prompto hissed.

There was a pause, then a nod from the man named Mal. He chuckled in recognition. 

“Ah, the Niff. I was wondering if you survived. Congratulations.”

Prompto took a step forward as he clutched his gun tightly. “Shut the _fuck_ up.”

The man turned his head slightly to glance over his shoulder, and Prompto could see his angled features clearly thanks to the lamp dangling from a nearby overhang. His dark eyes looked almost black thanks to how the shadows fell, and Prompto couldn’t help thinking he was more fearsome than any daemon he had ever seen.

“Come to kill me, have you?”

The question stopped Prompto in his tracks, but he maintained his grip on his weapon, holding it at eye level. Mal turned around then, and Prompto was surprised at how _big_ he was—at least as tall as Gladio and just as thick.

“Don’t move,” Prompto repeated, but he faltered this time and Mal took one tentative step towards him.

“I’ll give it to you—you’re pretty scrappy for a Niff.”

“ _Stop_ calling me that.” Prompto waved his gun insistently even as the Glaive took another step forward, an eyebrow raising in amusement. The gunner retreated a few feet, eyes still trained on his assailant’s face.

“You may have been Kingsglaive, but that doesn’t change who you are—Prompto Argentum.”

Acid dripped off every syllable Mal spoke, and Prompto nearly dropped his pistol in shock, eyes widening to show the whites, visible even in the lowlight.

 _How_?

How did Mal know his name when he had no idea who the Glaive was?

When the man laughed in response to Prompto’s expression every fiber of Prompto’s being shut down, panic strangling whatever confidence he once had. This time when Mal approached, Prompto remained still, following the movement as if he were watching a movie, detached and numb.

 _Powerless_.

Mal’s hand wrapped around the gun barrel, positioning it against the muscle of his shoulder. The other still casually held his bag of produce. Closer now, Prompto could smell the sickly-sweet scent of the man’s cologne.

“Go ahead. Pull the trigger.” It was a dare, one that Prompto wouldn’t fulfill—and Mal knew it.

Prompto lifted his chin, slowly meeting the Glaive’s eyes. Mal’s grin was the last thing he saw before something hard collided with the side of his temple, swallowing him in darkness.

* * *

“Malcolm Coluber,” Ignis said gently. Prompto was propped up in the bed of the Kingsglaive infirmary, glaring down at the restraints that currently chained him in place. “Shortly after you were discharged, he returned to Lucis from a reconnaissance mission in Tenebrae. I believe he was involved in the efforts to rescue the Oracle prior to the fall of Insomnia, and quickly rose through the ranks in the aftermath that followed,” he explained, but Prompto wouldn’t look at the former advisor, lips turned down angrily. “It appears he took personal offence to General Glauca infiltrating the Glaive and holds a grudge against the Empire.”

 _Tough shit—the Empire screwed all of us over. That doesn’t make him special,_ Prompto thought.

“Surely, you could have handled this better—”

“You think _I_ could have done that to a guy like _him_?” Prompto snarled. Ignis didn’t answer immediately, collecting his thoughts. “I know you’re blind, Iggy, but you’re not _that_ blind.”

Ignis had read the report using a screen-reader. Multiple lacerations and contusions to the head and face, a gunshot wound to the left shoulder complex—the caliber bullet and serial number matching Prompto’s registered weapon—and whiplash, supposedly from being jumped from behind in an alleyway outside of the Lestallum marketplace.

He’d seen Prompto do worse—back in his prime.

“I don’t think you’re well,” Ignis admitted. Prompto yanked hard against the metal cuffs around his wrists, making the bedframe rattle.

“ _Fuck_ , Ignis, this isn’t about my mental health. This is about that _fucker_ damn near killing me!”

Ignis sighed, hands coming up to rub his temples. He had a horrible headache.

“He’s pressed charges against you, Prompto. You’ll be held at Formouth Garrison until after the blockades are lifted—”

“ _What_?” Prompto had gone completely still save for the trembling of his lower lip, hands gripping the cold rail that ran along either side of him. “Ignis, you can’t be serious.” He spoke barely above a whisper, anger turning to desperation. If Ignis could have seen him, he would have noted how the blood rushed out of his face, freckles turning dark against his pale skin.

“It’s out of my hands, Prompto. I will do my best to organize a defense for you, but in the meantime, try to be on your best behavior. It will prove difficult to bargain for your release if you continue to cause problems.”

Ignis’s exhaustion hemorrhaged into the space between them, causing Prompto to sink down, succumbing to the bleak realization that his reality had finally become worse than his nightmares.

* * *

He was transported to the former Imperial base the following day in an armored car. Blessedly, Mal wasn’t among the Glaives who escorted Prompto, although the sharpshooter had the sinking suspicion that it wouldn’t be the last he saw of the man. Outside of one ungentle shove to propel him into the back of the vehicle, the ride was largely uneventful, and Prompto fell asleep to the sound of daemons bellowing somewhere in the distance—the world of ruin’s signature lullaby.

When he was shaken awake some several hours later, he stepped out of the car to look up at Formouth Garrison’s gray walls and guard towers, thinking it made perfect sense that it was now being used as a prison. With a Glaive on either arm, Prompto was led through the mechanized gates, and he made mental notes of where soldiers were posted—in case the information might come in handy later. No one spoke to him, but he received plenty of stares from curious onlookers as they passed by, eventually entering a small building connected to a larger hanger.

A man jumped up from a desk, saluting clumsily. He had a baby face and eyed Prompto with unabashed wonder. Prompto stared back coolly, unfurling his fingers from where they had been clenched at his sides, and was thrilled to see the kid blush.

“Prompto Argentum?” he asked, a mix between hopeful and unsure. The boy had wide amber eyes and dusty hair that hung long past his nose, making Prompto imagine he had gotten roped into this job by an overbearing father. He could almost sympathize— _almost._ The other guards stepped back, blocking the door, and the young man addressing him slid a stack of papers across the table between them. His nametag shone on his neatly pressed uniform, ‘B. Agnus.’

“Yep. The one and only,” Prompto confirmed without emotion, glancing over them. It was a processing form, with space for fingerprints at the bottom.

“If I could have you press your fingers into this ink…” the young guard wouldn’t look at him directly, but that suited Prompto just fine. He remembered Ignis’s warning—

_It will be difficult to bargain for your release if you continue to cause problems._

Sighing in resignation, Prompto did as he was asked, stepping away from the desk once he completed the task.

“You’ll need to change into these,” B. Agnus added as he filed the paper in the desk. He was holding out a folded gray jumpsuit. The youthful Glaive looked expectant, and Prompto realized he meant _now_.

He hesitated, eyes cutting over to the guards at the door who were watching him like hawks, poised to strike if he made one wrong move. Although it made his stomach turn, Prompto began to strip, angling his body away until he finished changing. The shirt had the number ‘308’ in block print on one sleeve and puckered awkwardly around his slender frame, a few sizes too big. He rolled the shirt beneath the waistband to make it more flattering before watching forlornly as his clothing was confiscated and placed in a box off to the side.

“Stand here,” Agnus instructed next, and Prompto played the obedient prisoner, moving in front of a wall as the boy pulled out a camera, snapping a few pictures. “Turn to the side.” They repeated the process a couple of times until the Glaive seemed satisfied.

“You will be escorted to the holding area. Meals will be served three times a day, and there will be supervised activity periods. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Prompto arched an eyebrow, not quite sure what the kid’s deal was. What did he think this was, a hotel? And why the hell was he blushing again?

 _Sweet Six, he's a fucking idiot_.

“Are you always like this?” Prompto asked the question before he could stop himself, and B. Agnus—B stood for ‘baby’ Prompto determined—blinked comically, right before Prompto had his leg kicked out from behind. He staggered forward with a gasp, opposite knee slamming onto the floor, and Prompto cursed when there was a pop in his wrist from bracing himself instinctively.

“Show some respect,” the Glaive responsible for the surprise attack snapped.

“That’s not necessary,” Baby Agnus yelped, watching as the two Glaive’s dragged Prompto to his feet. Prompto grimaced and tried to ignore the throbbing in his wrist as he was pushed out the door, Agnus’s wide eyes following him with concern. They walked in tense silence into the hanger nearby, which had been converted into a multi-block cell, chain link fences with barbed wire ceilings sectioning off different living areas. There were people dressed in the same gray jumpsuits as him walking in aimless circles inside, cots on the floor the only ‘furniture’ worth mentioning.

_Animals in cages._

Prompto was thrown back to Zegnautus Keep in Gralea, a frigid terror clutching his heart. He felt like he was going to throw up, swallowing to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

It was almost a relief when the guards finally stopped to unlock a gate in the fencing, and he stepped into the small space without arguing, fingers hanging from the triangular links in the divider as the door shut.

“Don’t expect any preferential treatment,” one of the men exclaimed, sizing Prompto up in one disdainful look. The blond had to resist the urge to roll his eyes—it probably wouldn’t have gone over well. “When General Coluber gets here, he’ll deal with all the Niff traitors, even you.”

_Me, the traitor? That’s rich._

Prompto’s pulse jumped at the mention of Coluber even as his features hardened in defiance. The other guard sneered, kicking the fencing so that Prompto jerked back as it rattled.

He listened as they sauntered off, snickering and joking with one another. Prompto had to wonder how things had gotten so bad without him realizing. Had his life at Hammerhead really been _that_ sheltered? Anti-Imperial sentiments had always thrived in Lucis, but never to the extent that he felt unsafe. Sure, he got the occasional dirty look, but there were bound to be assholes in every town. Had all of this been festering in the hearts of Insomnia’s citizens, unknown to them as they tried to help Noctis fulfill his destiny?

The darkness had a way of bringing out the worst in people.

The blond plopped down on the thin bedding shoved in the corner of the square cubicle and placed his forehead against his knees as he attempted to ground himself.

_In and out—inhale, exhale._

_Just don’t cause any trouble and it will all work out._

It sounded like a lie, but it was the only thing he had left to cling to, so he forced himself to swallow it—hook, line, and sinker.

* * *

Prompto was in the middle of eating what passed as a ‘meal’ at Formouth Garrison, holding his nose as he choked down a pile of the bland mush, when the air seemed to fill with electricity, a chatter of nervous excitement consuming the silence. The gunner picked his head up curiously, straining to see from where he sat who was coming through the hanger doors as they cranked open.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle anxiously when Malcolm Coluber swept into view, the gold buttons on his Kingsglaive uniform all the more garish beneath the offensively white bulbs glaring down on them. Prompto observed how people shrank away, cowering in the corners of their pens, but he resisted the compulsion to do the same and stared the general down as he turned in his direction. 

Coluber seemed to know exactly where he was, and Prompto got slowly to his feet when the man came to stand by the fence, keeping just enough distance between them so he wouldn't have to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. 

Prompto thought he could feel the lingering taste of blood pool in his mouth. He rubbed his dry lips together, wetting them.

"Inmate three-oh-eight, you're coming with me." 

Prompto had to look down at his sleeve. He had entirely forgotten that he had been assigned a number. Another Glaive quickly stepped forward to unlock the door, but Prompto didn't move. 

Mal tilted his head and smiled, evoking the image of a coeurl stalking its prey. A bead of cold sweat trickled down Prompto's neck and slid to the small of his back. 

He became aware of the Glaive grabbing him by his wrist, gasping slightly from the shock of pain that shot through him from the injury he had sustained during processing. 

Following behind General Coluber, Prompto drilled holes into the man's back with his eyes, imagining what it would feel like to put a bullet through his skull.

Prompto hoped he lived long enough to find out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Mal" is a commonly used prefix for "bad" or "evil," while "Coluber" is the Latin for "snake."  
> \- "Agnus" is Latin for lamb  
> \- Noctis was born on August 30th and the number assigned to Prompto is a subversion of that, 30/8


	4. Original Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now at Formouth Garrison, Prompto deals with the physical and emotional toll of captivity--but he learns that light can be found even in the darkest of places.

[ ](https://ibb.co/QQh3q1H)  


Prompto felt his mood plummet the moment the guards let him proceed unaccompanied into the windowless office with Mal, and he checked his shoulder when he heard the door lock with heavy finality behind him.

The room’s only decorations consisted of a Kingsglaive banner drooping on the back wall and a metal table and chairs. Mal gestured that Prompto should sit, and he did with trepidation, anxiety making his movements jerky and unnatural.

General Coluber folded his hands as he took a seat across from Prompto. When he set them on the table, Prompto was able to glimpse the head of a snake tattoo peeking out from beneath the cuff of his jacket.

“I trust your stay has been comfortable thus far.”

Prompto sat back, not voicing any of the smart-ass remarks he could have made.

_The food’s shit._

_You need softer beds._

_Your activity yard could use a jungle gym._

Even though the Glaive was smiling, his eyes were harder than the chair Prompto found himself sitting on. Now wasn’t the time for his reflexive sarcasm.

Mal reached down, methodically unsheathing the curved dagger affixed to his belt. As he began to speak, he set it between them, and Prompto watched it as if it were a serpent that might rear up and bite him. 

“I couldn’t believe my luck in finding you. Wiping Niflheim off the map has always been my long-term goal, but killing _you_? That will be the icing on the cake.”

Mal began to spin the blade with one finger, it gleaming with each rotation—a rattlesnake’s tail quivering in warning. It was dawning on Prompto that this wasn’t just random happenstance. He had been a target from the beginning.

Tearing his eyes away from the weapon, he studied the general, stunned by the unbridled hatred radiating off him.

“… _Why_? Why me?” Prompto’s question was accented by the ‘swish’ of the dagger on the metallic surface before Malcolm picked it up again, running one finger gently along its razor-edge. A prick of red painted the Glaive’s finger, drawing the prisoner’s attention.

“Prompto Argentum. Test subject identification: N, I, P, zero, one, three, five, seven. Cloned by the Imperial Research Chief Verstael Besithia in Gralea of Niflheim on October twenty-fifth, year seven-hundred-thirty-six. You were slated to become part of the Empire’s magitek infantry, but were retrieved during a raid on Zegnautus Keep by the Kingsglaive and taken to Insomnia as an infant. From there you were placed in a foster home with Lucian citizens where you remained through your youth, eventually befriending His Royal Highness, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.”

Prompto hadn’t noticed that his mouth was hanging open, entirely captivated as Mal continued to rattle off his life story as if he were reading from a dossier.

“After high school you joined the Crownsguard, accompanying the prince and his retainers in his unknowing escape from Insomnia before it was decimated by Imperial troops in the coup led by General Glauca and his operatives. Following the tragedy, you were abducted by the Empire and used as bait to lure His Majesty into a trap, where he was imprisoned in the Crystal, and as a result, darkness consumed all of Eos.”

Without warning, Mal slammed the hilt of the dagger onto the table, the resulting ‘CLANG’ making Prompto jump.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mal, now a daemon in his own right, brandished his weapon threateningly in Prompto’s direction and he flinched back, fight or flight response making the contents of his stomach curdle.

“I—that—” Tongue tied, Prompto stuttered, unable to form a response.

_You think I don’t blame myself every damn day?_

_Noctis would be here if it weren’t for me._

“The Empire brings destruction everywhere it goes, and every last vestige of it needs to be eradicated from the planet.”

Prompto gripped the edge of the table as the room spun, the conviction in Mal’s statement enough to knock him breathless. The man stood decidedly, towering over Prompto, the Glaive’s body language telling him all he needed to know about what was coming next.

Prompto’s body finally kicked into overdrive, and he found himself scrambling backwards, knocking over his chair over as he sought to flee, Mal making slow steps in his direction. When he reached the door, he tugged at the handle desperately as if willing it to open, but it held fast.

“ _Help_!” Prompto screamed as he was slammed backwards by his hair, Mal pinning him to the ground with his bodyweight, strong legs squeezing the blond’s torso and holding him still even as he pushed and kicked, frenzied. The general caught Prompto’s bad wrist and wrenched it forcefully, making Prompto’s scream undulate, the noise interrupted with a strong back hand that had the blond seeing stars.

“How nice of you to leave lines for me to trace,” Mal murmured amidst Prompto’s pain-drunk protests. Prompto’s shouts intensified as Mal pressed the knife to the scars that made crisscrossing patterns over his victim’s inner forearm, blood running freely.

“No—no—no—” Prompto’s wails turned to sobs, free hand falling limply to the side as the agony overwhelmed him into stillness. Mal’s cuts were deliberate and careful, and when he finished he rose without ceremony, flinging the knife with a dull clatter across the room.

Prompto vaguely registered the sound of the door unlocking and Mal speaking.

“Clean this up. We can’t have a prisoner committing suicide on our watch.”

Eyes flitting shut, Prompto took one shuddering breath and prayed to any god that might be listening for a miracle.

* * *

Miracles were in short supply at Formouth Garrison, however. Prompto gradually learned the subtle signs of abuse that seemed to be everywhere if you knew what to look for.

Refugees shying away anytime a Glaive entered the hanger.

Muffled moans in the night that prevented Prompto from sleeping, shapes in the dark committing unspeakable acts.

The distant screams that could be heard outside the bay doors, individuals dragged out at all hours of the day, returning with soulless expressions to curl onto cots, knees hugged into their chests.

Prompto was in and out of the infirmary at the far end of the complex during his first week, on ‘suicide watch’ after Mal claimed he had slit his own wrists. The general mentioned in passing that he had sent a report to the Marshal detailing the incident, ensuring that anything Prompto said wouldn’t be taken seriously—and that any random attacks by the guards would be overlooked.

“If you speak a word of what goes on here to anyone, there will be no end to your suffering,” he had whispered one night, form outlined by a single red emergency light flashing over an exit door.

It was like a scene straight out of a horror film—except this was real life.

So, Prompto kept his mouth shut and tried to survive, unsure if he’d live to see the outside world again.

General Coluber was always present in the periphery, a part of the shadows, although for some reason he generally avoided Prompto after their first meeting. It made him uneasy because he could only assume the Glaive had something terrible in store for him.

He would stare down at his bandaged arm and shudder any time he overheard someone use Mal’s name.

At first, Prompto fought the random punishments dealt out by the Glaives, but that tended to make the beatings worse, so he eventually learned to take his lumps in silence. The guards would get bored when they couldn’t get a reaction out of him and would move on to the next unsuspecting victim. Prompto would be returned to his cell to lick his wounds, the passing of time only marked by the tasteless meals that would be slid under the gate at designated intervals.

Thanks to the hostile environment, it didn’t take long for Prompto to start jumping at every noise, sleep deprivation making him sick. He stopped eating regularly, a permanent headache pulsing between his temples. There was no sign of Ignis or any news of the outside world, and time blurred together, making him lose track of how long he had been there.

Initially he tried to speak to other refugees when they were ushered into a fenced-in yard for their ‘physical activity’ period, but the guards didn’t like them talking, and after getting a baton to the back of the head any time he tried to start a conversation, Prompto kept to himself like everybody else.

Prompto’s hope dwindled with every sleepless night. Usually the blond would wait for his food tray to scrape across the concrete to signal the start of the day, rolling over on his cot only after the guard’s footsteps had retreated, but one morning there was a deviation in the monotony.

Someone pressed up against the fencing, making it shiver musically. When Prompto didn’t move from where he laid on his side, the stranger cleared their throat. He knew it wasn’t a Glaive—any soldier would have yelled at him to get up or hurled a threat—so Prompto lifted his head and turned, eyebrows furrowing in question.

Baby Agnus blinked at him, waving at Prompto awkwardly.

The sharpshooter blinked back in quick succession, setting his head down. When the boy coughed a little louder, Prompto realized he wasn’t dreaming and pushed himself upright, head spinning from sitting too fast.

“Mr. Argentum?” The young Glaive fidgeted with the cuffs on his jacket as Prompto propped himself against the chain link. “Sir, you need to eat something.”

Prompto would have laughed if he wasn’t so damn exhausted. Who the hell did this kid think he was? When Prompto didn’t respond, Agnus looked around nervously. There was no one else in the hallway. Prompto knew that it was shift change and that the guards were probably busy eating breakfast in the break room. They’d be fat and happy by the time they got around to harassing their wards.

“If you don’t eat, they’ll—they’ll _force_ you. I heard them talking,” Agnus admitted. If Prompto didn’t know any better, he would have assumed he was genuinely concerned for his welfare.

“Can’t be worse than what they’ve already done,” Prompto croaked, throat dry from hours without drinking water. Agnus’s head dipped and he bit his lip.

“Please. Hold out a bit longer. Mr. Scientia should be visiting soon. If you can make it until then…”

 _That_ got Prompto’s attention and he straightened a little more, leaning his forearms onto his knees as he bent forward.

“Wait—you know Ignis?” Prompto questioned, lowering his voice carefully. For the first time since he had arrived at the base, he allowed himself to feel hopeful.

“Well, not personally, but of course I _know_ him. Besides, I read all the transcripts that come in. He’s been asking about you, but the blockades are still in place. He’s asked for permission from the Marshal to do an inspection of the conditions here, but if you stop eating they’ll lock you in the infirmary and Mal will say you’re too unwell for visitors,” he explained, wringing his hands as he spoke.

Prompto laughed, short and humorless.

“Fuck Mal,” he snarled, emboldened by the notion that Ignis might be on his way. The anger that he had been burying beneath physical anguish and emotional turmoil bubbled to the surface now, and he watched as the baby-faced Glaive grimaced. “What are you doing here, anyway? You don’t fit in with these guys,” Prompto said, taking advantage of the opportunity that had presented himself.

If he had a chance to make an ally in this hellhole, he was going to take it.

“Uh, well, you’re probably right, but Malcolm is my brother, so.” The boy shrugged, nonchalant.

Prompto stared, the words coming out of the young man’s voice not processing in his tired brain. He couldn’t have said what he just thought he said. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been _that._

It clicked in his mind several seconds after the fact.

“Wait. Malcolm. General ‘I-want-to-kill-all-the-Niffs’ Coluber. _That’s_ your brother?” Prompto swallowed around the lump in his throat as the boy nodded.

 _The gods sure did have a fucked-up sense of humor_.

“Half-brother, technically. We had the same mother.”

Prompto ran a hand over his face, disbelief making him groan. “But— _how?_ I mean, no offense, but _look_ at you!” If Mal was a behemoth, his sibling was a chocobo chick. The young Glaive laughed good-naturedly, not denying Prompto’s assessment.

“I was attending the Altissian Academy of the Arts when Insomnia fell. Our mother died in the attack and Mal couldn’t afford my schooling, so he worked out a deal with the Marshal to have me enlisted. I’m not great at most things though, so this desk job is the best thing he could find me.” Prompto shook his head, making himself dizzy all over again.

Their mother had died thanks to the Empire. Prompto was slowly putting together the pieces of the puzzle that made up the horrible man who now governed Formouth with an iron first.

“If Mal is your brother, shouldn’t you hate me too? Why are you helping me?”

“Mal’s always seen the world in black and white, and for a long time I was just as angry as he was, but I’ve come to recognize that anger doesn’t help anyone. My mother was a kind person, and I think she’d be disappointed to see how what he’s doing now on her behalf.” Agnus lifted his eyes, shy. “And…part of me thinks His Majesty would be disappointed too.”

Prompto inhaled sharply as he was reminded of a conversation he had once had with Noctis, shortly after his friend had rescued him from Gralea.

_Once this is all over, I say we break down the borders—come together as one nation._

Tears made Prompto’s vision mist and he blinked aggressively to bat them away.

Prompto wanted to ask the kid more, but there were noises coming from the other side of the room, a sign that the other Glaives were finished eating. Wild-eyed, Baby Agnus took one step closer, speaking hurriedly.

“Please! I’ll do what I can, but you have to try.”

Everything in Prompto ached, inside _and_ out, but the hope shining on the younger man’s face stirred something in his chest, and he found himself wanting to do as he asked.

_For Noctis._

“All right, I’ll try,” Prompto promised solemnly. The boy grinned, and Prompto saw himself in him—back when the sun used to shine. Baby Agnus ran off just in time for a snarky Glaive to turn down his row of cells, baton banging against the cages loudly to wake those who were still asleep.

“Up and at ‘em, ya filthy Niffs! It’s a great day to be alive!”

Slow and sinister, a grin snaked its way across Prompto’s mouth. He’d found a reason to fight.

* * *

Prompto started eating everything on his plate no matter how much it upset his stomach. When the guards weren’t looking, he would move as much as possible—pushups, sit ups, jumping jacks—whatever he could think of. When he was in the yard, he’d walk, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he was exercising, but most of the Glaives were too busy talking to one another to notice. He finally built up the courage to jog, and when he was ignored, he did it more and more, working up a sweat.

Other refugees gave him weird looks, unable to understand his self-motivation.

 _Ignis is coming_ , Prompto reassured himself. _When he gets here, I can explain everything—I’ll be freed._

It was the mantra that got him through the days. The guards’ words seemed a little less barbed, their hits weaker.

Sometimes, Baby Agnus would visit him. It was usually late at night or in the early mornings when the Glaives were rotating. He couldn’t risk being seen talking to a traitor.

It was during one of their evening rendezvous that the well-meaning Glaive delivered the good news.

“I received a message today from the Marshal. Mr. Scientia is scheduled to come this Friday,” he had announced excitedly. Prompto lifted his hands from where he stood in his cell, spreading them in a helpless gesture.

“What’s today?”

There were no clocks or calendars around. He only knew it was still winter by how cold it was inside the hanger, toes and fingers now numb at all hours of the day.

“It’s Wednesday. My brother will be here tomorrow, but he’ll be busy with the transfers.”

“Transfers?” Prompto inquired as he rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them. Agnus gave a slight nod.

“More Niffs from the other bases. Apparently they’re already reaching capacity.” Something about Agnus’s statement worried him and his lips pursed.

“First of all, they’re not _Niffs_ , they’re Niflheimians.” Agnus flushed, muttering a quick apology, but Prompto glossed over the common slur to emphasize his next point. “Second—what do you mean, _reaching_ _capacity_? Where has Mal been finding all of these people? I thought the blockades were still active. No one should be traveling across the borders, right?” The Glaive’s head cocked in confusion as if he didn’t understand.

“Well, yeah, but the Kingsglaive has been locating foreigners and removing them from the havens, starting with Lestallum. They even managed to reach some of the smaller outposts—” Prompto held up one hand shakily and Agnus stopped.

“Is there no end to your brother’s evil?” he demanded, barely managing to taper his fury. He pictured members of the Kingsglaive knocking on doors, dragging innocent people from their homes, and he began to shake, hands balling into fists.

“I’m sorry,” Agnus wallowed after apologizing, head hung low. Prompto ran a hand through his hair, which had grown out to an awkward length, embarrassed for guilting the kid. 

He might have had the biggest asshole in the world for a brother, but Prompto knew it wasn’t Agnus’s fault that they were related. Feeling a change in subject was warranted, Prompto laid down and placed his hands behind his head.

“Thanks for letting me know—about Ignis. If you hadn’t said something when you did, well…”

_I probably wouldn’t be here._

Had that been Mal’s plan all along? Get Prompto to do his dirty work? He decided he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me, it’s the least I can do.” Prompto glanced over to see a blush color the boy’s face, still plain as day even in the lowlight. “I’m not a strong fighter like you or His Majesty’s retainers. If we’re being honest, I’m not even really Kingsglaive. I’m just glad I could help.”

In the time when the sun made its daily journey across the sky, Prompto would have been quick to reassure him or give him a pep talk. The words came more difficult now, feeling uncomfortable in his mouth.

“You should quit the Kingsglaive and do something you love. Life is too short, y’know?” Baby Agnus pressed his face up against the fence, glancing down at Prompto in awe. “What did you want to be before all of this?”

“A poet,” he answered a little bashfully. Prompto could only imagine what Mal thought of _that_.

“Well, there you go,” Prompto said firmly.

There was a lull, and Prompto felt strange in the silence, like it might swallow him whole.

“Thank you, Mr. Argentum.”

Without understanding why, Prompto’s throat narrowed with emotion, tears emerging to slide down his face. Agnus left long before he managed to collect himself, and Prompto was left alone with his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The["Altissian Academy of the Arts" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166284/chapters/45556375) that Agnus mentions is a reference to one of my other fics by the same name, an angsty three-part adventure series set in a high school AU (with a happy ending, and not nearly as dark as this story).  
> \- Fanart at the beginning of the chapter is by Mysterious Bean, @MysteriousBean5 on Tumblr. You can see the original post [HERE](https://mysteriousbean5.tumblr.com/post/186570784911/hey-hard-noct-life-its-ya-boy-ok-so-i)


	5. Mad World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto is forced into making a decision regarding whether he will fight or submit against his captors, but others aren't quite as willing to make tough choices.

“Three-oh-eight! Shower time!”

Prompto grit his teeth as his least favorite of the Glaives—Scar, as he liked to refer to him, because of the long dark disruption of skin from one eyebrow to his cheek—pushed the gate of his holding cell open.

Jumping up lithely, Prompto rushed to follow as he knew Scar had a nasty habit of kicking in knees if you weren’t quick enough to obey. His bruise still hadn’t completely healed from the last time. The guard led the way out of the hanger to a separate building across the activity yard, and Prompto’s teeth chattered as he walked to and from fluorescent spotlights and shadows, feet crunching over the frosted grass.

Scar allowed Prompto to enter the bath house first, and he gasped as a wave of humid air hit him. The only good thing about showering at Formouth was that it was the only warm place in the entire complex. He inhaled the heat gratefully, the soothing sensation jarring when juxtaposed against the sound of Glaives’ harsh laughter coming from within. Turning the corner, Prompto was surprised to find a group of refugees already waiting in the small changing area.

About ten men were huddled together fearfully, most of them already stripped naked. A group of Glaives leaned against the wall and leered, making lewd comments that Prompto had heard countless times before.

“Don’t be shy, show us what you got,” one cackled.

“Not much, huh? That’s all right, we’ll take what we can get,” another joked. The man who served as the target of their harassment was staring at his bare feet with intense concentration, but the person beside him cast a murderous glare in the guard’s direction that went unnoticed by everyone except for Prompto.

He knew that look, and it didn’t bode well for any of them.

Prompto tried to catch the disgruntled man’s eye, shaking his head discreetly, but the unfamiliar newcomer didn’t take the hint. Prompto had never seen him before, and he could only assume he was one of the ‘transfers’ Agnus had mentioned, brought in earlier that day. Thinking quickly, Prompto casually placed himself in-between the guard and the refugees, beginning to shrug out of his jumper.

“There you go, three-oh-eight. See? This bitch knows how to fall in line—you other Niffs can learn from him.” Prompto felt his skin burning under the Glaives’ predatory gazes, and he dug his hands into the gray fabric of his uniform to keep them from visibly trembling.

_Deep breaths, Prompto. It’s better than the alternative._

Like the first time he had showered, when he ended up face down in a pool of his own blood.

When he finished disrobing Prompto tossed the clothes into the pile accumulating in the corner and lifted his chin to meet the offending guard’s grin. Someone whistled appreciatively and Prompto flexed, fingernails digging into his palms.

_Don’t let them see your fear._

“All right, hurry up,” a Glaive ordered.

The uniformed men ushered them all down a short hall into the large communal shower. Pale yellow bulbs in the ceiling illuminated the off-white tile, the scent of mildew pungent in the air. Prompto watched as people hurried to be the first to the showerheads furthest from the entryway, putting as much distance between themselves and the group of jeering Glaives as possible. He knew better than to run though—they’d find him if they wanted to—so he took the first shower he saw, shivering beneath the cool spray when a Glaive cut the water on, and tried to ignore the words that pelted his back.

“Spread your legs a little wider for us, baby,” one crowed. Prompto was thankful that the running water was loud enough to mask his quickened breaths, and he scrubbed himself with the bar of soap that sat in the small built-in shelf in front of him, trying not to look panicked. He was acutely aware of every footstep and shadow that moved out of the corner of his eye.

Prompto was beginning to think they would escape the embarrassment unscathed, when a voice he recognized as belonging to Scar barked out, anger like teeth razing into flesh.

“What do you think _you’re_ looking at, ya fucking Niff?”

Soap slipping from his fingers, Prompto pivoted, blinking away water to see the stranger who had been shooting daggers at the Glaives earlier squared up with the guard.

_Shit—_

Scar shoved the man into the wall, causing him to slip and land with a ‘SLAM’ that had everyone swiveling, skittish as sheep that had just seen a wolf. The other Glaives were already pulling in close, bouncing batons in their hands with deadly intent.

_Shitshitshit—_

Prompto’s heart and thoughts were running wild as he tried to think of how he could help prevent the beat-down that he knew was inevitable.

“Get your fucking hands off me, you Lucian trash!” the man on the floor screamed, and several refugees scattered, not wanting to be associated with anything that might earn the guards’ wrath.

“Lookie here, gentlemen. We got a fighter,” Scar chuckled. He reared back, fist coming down hard and fast, but his intended target rolled, kicking at the man’s ankle and taking him down with a _BOOM_!

_Fuck!_

Prompto pressed his body to the wall, frantic breaths making pins and needles dance over his skin. Scar was getting to his feet with a roar, and Prompto saw his victim disappear within the circle of black uniforms, shouts echoing alongside the thwacks of weapons and thuds of fists raining down.

 _They’re going to kill him._ Prompto battled within himself. There were two choices before him—stand aside or intervene. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mayhem that had erupted across the room. When he saw that the water swirling down a nearby drain had turned a murky pink, he knew he had no other option.

_Godsdamnit—fuck me—_

“Hey!” Prompto yelled, emphasizing the word by throwing the bar of soap he had scooped up as hard as he could. It collided with Scar’s head of dark hair and the Glaive immediately whirled to see who had thrown it, crazed eyes zeroing in on Prompto. The guard released the prisoner he was in the midst of strangling, and Prompto glimpsed the victim’s face, covered in blood and nearly unrecognizable. The sharpshooter's instinct was to cower, maybe even beg for mercy, but it was too late for that, so he stood as tall as he could and tried to pull forgotten strength from deep inside him, mentally preparing for a fight.

 _Just like a sparring match,_ he tried to tell himself. Usually, sparring matches weren’t five against one, but they hadn't fought alongside Gladio, Ignis, and Noctis.

“Trying to be noble, three-oh-eight? You’re going to regret that,” Scar snapped. Prompto put his weight in the balls of his feet a moment before the Glaive lunged, dodging low as he jammed a fist up under the man's ribs with all the force he could muster. The air rushed out of Scar, but Prompto didn’t wait for him to recover, delivering a quick succession of hits to his kidney, knee, and groin. When the Glaive crumpled, something in the atmosphere shifted and Prompto knew he had the upper hand.

The next Glaive dove for Prompto, but the blond vaulted over him, stomping on his head after he cleared. There was a sickening crack when his skull made impact on the tile. Another guard managed to get behind him, arm wrapping around the sharpshooter’s neck to place him in a choke-hold, but Prompto rammed one foot into his assailant’s groin, using leverage to flip the soldier head-over-ass on top of his fallen comrades. The pile of bodies skidded on the wet floor.

Seeing the quick work Prompto had made of their friends, one of the two remaining Glaives bolted from the room while the other retreated, eyeing Prompto and the refugees who now stared him down with malice.

“Stay back!” he yelled, but his words lacked their usual power and Prompto took one step forward, chest heaving with exertion.

“Come here and make me,” Prompto dared him. The Glaive gulped, and Prompto gave himself permission to smirk, ice-blue eyes filled with fire.

“You’ll pay for this!”

No one moved as the Glaive twisted to follow his comrade, footsteps fading as the door of the bath house swung shut with a _bang_!

Prompto relinquished the breath he had been holding and suddenly became the focal point of the room, awe-struck faces staring at him from every angle. The man who had been the Glaives’ target when Prompto arrived knelt beside his friend, reaching down to press fingers against the pulse in his neck.

“He’s alive,” he muttered, and there was a low groan to back up his claim.

“Those bastards,” another man hissed. Heads were shaking in unison and Prompto felt his adrenaline receding, leaving him empty.

“That was amazing,” someone else said. The men drew in closer, and Prompto tried to ignore the fact that they were all still bare-assed and dripping wet, resisting the urge to cover his dick with his hand like a prepubescent boy.

“I’m Carwyn, and this idiot is Vidar. How’d you learn to do that?”

Prompto had squatted down to help the bloodied Vidar into a seated position, relieved to see his eyes slide open with the motion.

“Prompto—and I, uh, used to be in the Kingsglaive,” he admitted. Gasps and murmurs made him regret answering honestly, but the man kneeling closest to him smiled.

“Thank you,” Carwyn murmured. The whispers ceased. When Prompto lifted his head, every face he saw had a smile on it.

 _Hope._ It was as powerful as it was dangerous.

He looked away, thinking of Agnus.

_Don’t thank me. I haven’t done nearly enough._

“What do you think they’ll do?” a nervous inquiry brought Prompto out of his own head and he grimaced at the thought. The Glaives in the middle of the room were out cold, but when they came around they’d be spitting mad and thirsty for blood.

_My blood._

A wave of nausea suddenly overcame Prompto, and he closed his eyes just in time to hear the door creak open. Everybody froze, stiller than statues.

When General Coluber entered a ripple of terror shot through the room. A new group of armed Glaives were on his heels, faces devoid of emotion.

Prompto became painfully aware of his nakedness when Mal’s eyes came to rest on him, toes curling as the general smiled in greeting.

“Fighting will not be tolerated at Formouth Garrison,” Mal announced matter-of-factly.

No one breathed in the seconds that followed the general’s statement. Mal came to stand beside Prompto, and the blond broke eye contact, jaw clenching. Everything in the room seemed to vanish, leaving only him and the leader of the Glaives. Prompto wanted to slither into the drain and disappear. No matter how courageous he might have felt fighting the guards, just seeing Mal was enough to shatter his confidence.

He hated him.

And he hated himself.

Mal brought his hand to Prompto’s neck, making the man flinch. His pulse fluttered like a caged bird against the larger man’s fingers and he swallowed a cry.

Mal squeezed, just enough to make it difficult for Prompto to breathe.

“Gentlemen, see to the injured and escort these prisoners back to their cells.” Mal’s grip relaxed and Prompto inhaled quietly, trying to make himself as small as possible. “This one is coming with me.”

Prompto couldn’t help himself—his body physically revolted, trying to break free of the general’s grasp, but Mal merely had to clench his fist and shake to turn Prompto into a rag doll, vision going black at the edges.

“What will the Marshal think when he hears you’re inciting riots?” Mal hummed as he brought Prompto to his feet with his iron grip. Prompto’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water.

The image of a blurry brick wall flickered in the dark that was creeping in.

_Oh gods—let me die—_

Prompto lamented silently when Mal took him out of the building, forgoing the clothes laying in the changing room. The freezing air was like a slap to his bare skin, and goosebumps rose on his arms as Mal half-carried him back through the hanger and into the same windowless office where he had cut into his wrist with his dagger. When he locked the door behind them, he finally released his charge.

Prompto fell to his knees, his throat now throbbing, and coughed until he could breathe properly again. Through his tears, he saw Mal’s knife in the general’s hand and wheezed. His spirit broke as soon as the Glaive turned on him.

“Please—please don’t—” Prompto crawled backwards until he found the wall, unable to look at Mal when he crouched, their knees brushing from how close they were.

“Listen closely.” Mal spoke patiently as if speaking to a child and not a grown man. Prompto bit down hard, nerves making his muscles spasm. “Tomorrow, Ignis Scientia will be arriving at this base. You, however, will not be leaving, so get any crazy notions of escape out of your head now.” Mal’s smile was malicious, and his eyes dropped to Prompto’s abdomen where he pressed the flat side of his blade. Prompto sucked in quickly, fear shooting down his spine. “If you don’t play along with everything I say, I promise you will be in so much pain you won’t be able to blink without hurting, let alone sit or stand. If you _breathe_ wrong, I will beat the living shit out of every man and woman in this facility and force you to watch. And if you so much as hint you are being mistreated, I will make sure Mr. Scientia meets a gruesome, untimely end. Accidents happen every day, especially in these dark times.”

Mal trailed his blade down below Prompto’s navel, the tip finding the tender flesh of his inner thigh and drawing blood. Prompto squeezed his eyes shut, an animalistic whine wrenched from his lips.

“Do you understand?” Mal’s words were short and clipped. Prompto nodded once—he’d agree to just about anything to get the general to remove the dagger from between his legs, lingering dangerously close to a valuable piece of anatomy that he had no desire to lose.

When Mal sat back on his heels and sheathed his weapon, Prompto exhaled, legs clamping shut. “Good. You attacked the guards. You’ve been unstable since you arrived, and your mental health is in question.”

 _True enough,_ Prompto thought bitterly. Mal didn’t stop there.

“You will be quiet. You will be reserved. Any question you’re asked will receive the bare minimum response.” When Prompto looked up, he got sucked into Mal’s amber eyes, narrowed and more unnerving than staring into the open maw of a naga, devouring the last of Prompto’s hopes.

* * *

Prompto had never been more thankful to see his gray prison jumpsuit. As soon as he put it back on, he lay in the fetal position on the thin mattress of his cell, pulling the scratchy fleece sheet over his head to shut out the world.

He didn’t eat that night.

Eventually Scar and his lackeys came by, kicking the chain link in an attempt to rattle him. He was too drained to react.

“You’re lucky the boss claimed you as his,” Scar taunted. “If he hadn’t told us to keep our hands off, your ass would be ours, Niff bastard.”

_Yep. Lucky me._

“Sleep tight, bitch.” Laughter followed.

Prompto continued to stare straight ahead, the sideways scenery of the holding area coming in and out of focus until he eventually drifted off, tossing and turning.

He received another visitor later, alerted to their presence by a gentle whispering.

“Mr. Argentum?”

 _Not now_. Prompto turned over reluctantly, hollow from hunger and despair. Agnus was watching him, slender eyebrows furrowed in his typical child-like sincerity. When he saw Prompto wasn’t going to speak, he took it upon himself to take charge of the conversation.

“Mr. Scientia will be here in the morning. Please don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself until them.”

 _Too late_.

A pause.

“Agnus…?” The boy jutted his head forward to better listen to Prompto’s soft voice. “You have to tell Ignis what’s happening here. Your brother—he’s going to kill us, and you’re the only one who can stop him.” It was a shot in the dark, and a risky one at that, but Prompto had to try. He was running out of options.

Agnus shook his head, frown deepening in concern. “I know my brother can be—unmanageable at the best of times, but soon the blockades will be lifted, and things will go back to normal. When Mr. Scientia gets here, you’ll be taken back to Lestallum, I’m sure of it!”

All Prompto wanted to do was close his eyes, but he couldn’t give up now, otherwise his suffering would have been for nothing. He pushed himself into a seated position.

“I don’t think you get it. Kid, he’s _torturing_ us. He wants to wipe Niflheim off the map—he told me that himself. Even if I do manage to get out of here, what about everyone who’s left?”

_What about Carwyn and Vidar and all the other refugees locked in this hell hole?_

Agnus was shaking his head more adamantly now, and it struck Prompto that he was so deep in denial that he couldn’t see what his brother was doing—or what he had already done.

Prompto took a deep breath and took a leap of faith.

“Agnus. Your brother—he assaulted me. He _raped_ me, back in Lestallum. And he’s going to kill me if you let him.”

Prompto felt his pulse quicken when the words left his mouth. It was the first time he had admitted out loud what had truly happened that night after leaving the bar. Among his shame was a pang of relief at having finally told someone—but then Agnus scoffed, and Prompto’s heart fell.

“My brother may have a mean streak, but he would never do something like that.” Something in his face had changed. His guard was up. Then, shakily: “I can’t believe it. I can’t. You’re—you’re lying because you want me to help you.”

“ _No_ , Agnus—”

“Stop, please.” Agnus put both hands up as if he were pushing away the claims, and it was like a bullet had ripped through Prompto's abdomen. “I thought I could trust you, but…” Agnus turned away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Argentum, but my brother is the only family I have left. I owe him everything. We may not see eye to eye, but he’s always cared for me and put me first. He’s cruel because of the pain the Empire inflicted on him, but he _is_ just. Please don’t ask me for help anymore.”

Agnus left, and Prompto didn't call after him. 

Instead, he listened to the sounds of Formouth Garrison as he laid awake in the dark.

The rustling of blankets.

Hushed conversations.

The cackling of guards—

And the sound of his own heart as it broke, a chorus of sobs reverberating in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mad World," is a song originally by Gary Jules that serves as the title for this chapter. The lyrics suit Prompto's head space.
> 
> "And I find it kinda funny  
> I find it kinda sad  
> The dreams in which I'm dying  
> Are the best I've ever had  
> I find it hard to tell you  
> I find it hard to take  
> When people run in circles  
> It's a very, very mad world"


	6. All Time Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ignis's visit, Prompto begins to realize just how dire his situation has become.

Prompto heard Ignis’s arrival long before his friend set foot in the building. A hush had fallen over Formouth Garrison, and the guards were uptight, their usual smirks and swagger replaced by sullen scowls. It was business as usual, but with scoffs instead of chuckles, and instructions given instead of punches. There were no screams that morning, and conversations went unchecked, the hum of chatter over breakfast a welcome change to the stifling silence. 

He watched and waited, anticipation and anxiety building with every inhale and exhale. 

When the hanger doors rolled aside to let in a gust of fresh winter air, Prompto stood and looked with the rest of the refugees, straining to catch a glimpse of the base’s esteemed visitor. 

As soon as Prompto saw Ignis, serious face drawn tight and cane in hand, his heart jumped and he wanted to cry out. 

_Ignis! Over here! Save me!_

Instead he clamped his mouth shut and clung to the chain link wall of his cell, fingers turning white from the strain. 

There was a man in uniform walking alongside Ignis, not one of Coluber’s men, but someone Prompto vaguely recognized as being stationed in Lestallum during his time in the Kingsglaive. He spoke evenly as they walked into the facility, led by one of Mal’s guards. 

“...there are holding cells in the hanger composed of fencing, individual cots in each cell. The refugees are all wearing gray jumpsuits and appear to be alert and active...” his description of Formouth carried to where Prompto stood two rows away, Ignis nodding occasionally to indicate he was still listening. Prompto couldn’t take his eyes off of Ignis even though metal barriers obstructed his view. It was difficult to swallow, heart stuck in his throat. 

They were drawing closer, and Prompto waited, thinking he might pass out if he held his breath any longer, but unable to help himself. 

When the three stopped at his gate he struggled to stay on his feet, legs turning to jelly. The guard unlocked his cell and Prompto observed Ignis’s signature head-tilt. 

“Prompto?” 

Hearing his own name, spoken in love and not as a slur, brought the man to tears. 

_...if you so much as hint you are being mistreated, I will make sure Mr. Scientia meets a gruesome, untimely end._

Prompto took a second to put on a brave face, forcing a smile for the benefit of the Glaive that was serving as the blind man’s eyes. 

“Yeah. Yeah, Iggy, I’m here.” 

There was a flicker of a smile on Ignis’s face, albeit brief, and Prompto couldn’t help thinking that he looked older since last he saw him—worn. He wondered what the former advisor had been doing all this time, but for now he pushed his curiosity aside. Just seeing a friendly face was enough. 

“How does he look?” Ignis directed the question to his assistant. 

“Hair has grown out, but he appears in good health. Eyes are a little sunken. Skinnier than I remember.” Prompto felt his face flush at the man’s appraisal. 

“What are you feeding them?” This time, the inquiry was for the guard. Prompto saw him stiffen slightly, defensive. 

“They’re fed three meals a day, sir. Usually gruel, bread, and occasionally meat when we can get it. Supplies are scarce, as you know.” 

Ignis didn’t respond right away, and Prompto saw the slightest purse of his lips. 

_C’mon Iggy. You’re smarter than anyone I know—put it together._

_“_ Is there somewhere I can speak to him in private?” Prompto inhaled sharply at Ignis’s request, belatedly hoping his reaction wouldn’t draw any suspicion. The garrison soldier looked reluctant, eyes flitting between him and Ignis. 

“He’s...been problematic, sir. For your safety, we cannot permit anyone to be alone with him. However, I believe General Coluber would allow you to speak in his office.” 

“That would be suitable, thank you.” Ignis’s tone was professional, but Prompto saw the way he shifted, both hands resting on the head of his cane. The stance reminded the sharpshooter of when they fought together _—_ a sign that Ignis was ready to attack at a moment’s notice. Despite Mal’s threats, Prompto’s heart soared. 

Maybe he still had a chance. 

The walk to Mal’s private room was nerve-racking. Prompto stood next to the guard, Ignis just behind him. He wanted to scream. To be so close and not be able to say what he wanted to was the worst torture he had experienced to date. When they were ushered inside the office, Prompto stopped briefly, seeing that Mal was already sitting at the table, flipping through a stack of paperwork. The general stood when the door opened, saluting by placing a fist over his heart. 

Ignis’s attendant— _Julius,_ Prompto finally remembered—leaned in to inform Ignis what was going on. Prompto watched as his friend inclined his head in deference, returning the gesture. 

“Mr. Scientia, it is my honor to welcome you to Formouth.” Mal came around the table and offered his hand. Ignis, able to sense the movement, extended his own to shake it. Prompto fought to keep his expression neutral as a mixture of rage and horror flared in his chest. 

“General Coluber, my pleasure.” 

“Please, sit.” Mal placed a hand on Ignis’s elbow and guided him to the table, as gentle as a shepherd leading a lamb. Prompto thought about what those hands had done to him and he shuddered, sickened. The general indicated wordlessly that Prompto should take the seat across from Ignis, and he did so without protest, pulse thrumming at a dizzying pace. 

“Feel free to speak openly, and ask any questions,” Mal urged. Julius stepped back slightly now that Ignis was situated, eyes scanning the room with bored disinterest. 

Prompto, on the other hand, was very interested in everything except Mal, who was glaring at him in warning from over Ignis’s shoulder. The general’s back was to Julius so the two visitors were none the wiser. 

_If you so much as breathe wrong..._

_“_ How have you been, Prompto? I’ve heard some...troubling things.” Even though Prompto knew what had been said about him, it still hurt to have Ignis imply that he believed the rumors. 

“I’m good—better now. Things were...a little rough at first.” Prompto glanced up at Mal to see if the answer was acceptable and he took the general’s lack of reaction as a good sign. Ignis placed his palm up on the table. Prompto swallowed hard, holding his arm out tentatively. The blind man's deft fingers traced over the fresh set of scars along his wrist, the result of Mal’s torture. It pained him to see his friend sadden, but it was worse knowing it was because he assumed he had done damage to himself—again. 

“General Coluber was generous enough to drop the charges against you considering your mental state; however, this newest development is troubling. You attacked the Glaives here, Prompto.” 

The particular sequence of words strung together felt like a knife twisting in his gut. Prompto had to quickly shut his mouth when it dropped open reactively, Mal’s eyes clouding over. 

“I...” Prompto didn’t know what to say. 

“He has been making progress,” Mal said smoothly. Prompto wanted to jump up and throw his chair at the general’s head, but instead pressed his fists into the metal tabletop. “I know Mr. Argentum has been through a lot, and we are grateful for his service to the crown. It is my hope he can find peace here, as inconvenient as the situation may be for everyone. Perhaps it will prove to be a blessing in disguise.” 

“Indeed.” Ignis pulled his hand back, thoughtful. Prompto wanted to grab him and never let go, but Mal’s eyes were burrowing into Prompto’s throat, choking him and rendering him immobile. 

Ignis moved his cane— _tap-tap-tap—_ then turned his head back to Prompto. “Everyone is concerned for your welfare, Prompto. Cindy and Aranea will be relieved to hear you’re in good health. Gladiolus, as well, I’m sure, although we have been at odds as of late.” 

_Tap-tap-tap._

“Noctis would be upset, no doubt, to see you in such a state of disarray.” Prompto stared, Ignis’s words bouncing in his skull.

They gave him the sensation of his heart being ripped forcibly from his chest. 

_“_ How dare you.” The words came out in a hiss. Prompto half-rose out of his chair and Mal moved to place a hand on his shoulder, but Prompto wanted to be heard, consequences be damned. “ _Don’t_ tell me about how Noct would feel right now.” He only bit back the rest because Mal forced him back into his seat, the general’s fingers digging into the sensitive area around his armpit. 

“Think about what you’re doing, Prompto,” Ignis rebuked angrily. “You bring dishonor to his memory by throwing your life away as if it were nothing. We have all suffered since his departure, yet Gladio and I continue to fight while you choose to waste away.” 

A black hole had opened between them, and Prompto wanted to throw himself into it. 

“If you would rather die than live to see the light, I can no longer help you.” _Tap-tap-tap._ “I have lived in darkness far longer, but I learned to adapt—to rely on the strength of others, and then my own.” _Tap-tap-tap._ “You would do well to do the same.” Ignis stood abruptly, nodding to General Coluber and then to Julius. “I believe I’ve seen everything I came to see.” 

_The irony of it._

Prompto froze as Ignis turned to walk away, breath hitching in panic. It hit him when Ignis’s hand came to rest on the doorknob. That pattern—o _f course_. When Ignis had lost his sight, they had all hovered over him like mother chocobos, irritating him to no end. 

_If I am in need of assistance, I shall let you all know._ Three taps. They would come running to his side. Otherwise, they allowed him to make his own mistakes, learning the lay of the land, even as he stumbled and struggled to find his way in the dark. Could it be that he was secretly asking him if he needed help?

The door was opening, Prompto’s window of opportunity rapidly closing. It was his last chance, and he took it. 

“Iggy, wait!” Ignis stopped in the doorway, still facing away. 

Ignoring Mal’s pointed look, Prompto tried to act casual, one hand running through his unkempt hair. “I, uh...” Prompto drummed three fingers across the metal succinctly, hoping the movement passed as just one of his many nervous ticks. “...I’m sorry. For the trouble I’ve caused—but you’re wrong. About everything.” 

Ignis’s shoulders rose and then fell in time with his sigh. “We will see about that, Prompto. Farewell.” 

* * *

Prompto yelped and sputtered as freezing water was poured over his head. He reached out frantically, disoriented in the dark, only to be grabbed by his elbows and dragged out of his cell before he could see who was to blame for the rude awakening. Based on the snickering he heard, he could make an educated guess.

Four trays of slop had come and gone since Ignis had left Formouth—and every time a guard approached his cell, Prompto assumed it would be for the last time, but to his surprise, they didn’t drag him away like he expected. In fact, they didn’t do anything to him. No intimidating remarks, no cheap shots. They would slide him his food and leave, not returning until it was time for the next meal. Prompto wasn’t sure what to make of it, a bad feeling burrowing in-between his lungs and lingering like smoke in the air. He should have known the peace wouldn’t last long.

“Let me go!” Prompto demanded, and they did, shoving him onto the hard ground of the activity yard so that his knees throbbed. Rolling over, he stared up at Scar and the other two Glaives he had embarrassed in the bath house—Flatnose and Snake-Eyes.

“No one’s going to save you now, three-oh-eight. I can’t wait to watch General Coluber skin you alive,” Scar chuckled. Prompto’s eyes darted between the three men, gears shifting into defense mode.

“I thought you said Mal wanted me for himself?” Scar smirked at Prompto’s reminder, twirling a baton.

“Oh, he does, but that doesn’t mean we can’t stick around to watch.”

Something moved out of the corner of Prompto’s eye and he jerked his head to follow General Coluber’s coeurl-like prowl from the shadows into the brilliant white light he and the other Glaives found themselves in. His black uniform contrasted with his surroundings and made him look more ominous than usual, a grim reaper among devils.

 _This is it_ , Prompto thought. His mouth had gone dry, pupils dilated. He shivered from the cold dampness of his clothing against his skin, but mostly he shivered from fright. _I’m going to die._

“I did what you said,” Prompto breathed. Mal was heading towards him, weaponless, but still dangerous in every respect. “I did what you said,” he repeated, as if it might save him. He knew in his heart that it didn’t matter.

When he got within arm's length, Mal wove his fingers into Prompto's golden hair and twisted. Paralyzed by fear, Prompto could only cringe, head following to relieve some of the strain.

“I thought you might enjoy a little re-enactment of our first meeting—as a refresher.” Prompto’s veins filled with ice water and he jerked back, feeling his hair ripping at its roots.

 _Nonononono_ —

Mal’s knee collided with Prompto’s face unannounced and there was a crack, dulled by the blond’s scream. Blood splattered across the dead grass, a brilliant cherry color in the fluorescent lighting. Prompto couldn’t see, but he crawled anyway, fluid pouring from his mouth and nose as he tried to escape. He hadn’t gotten far when a foot placed itself squarely in his back, applying pressure so that his chest and the ground came together. The weight of Mal lowering on top of him was more than Prompto could handle. He swallowed his own blood as he tried to take gasping breaths, then hacked, then sobbed as he heard his jumper tearing, skin exposed to the chill.

“ _HELP_! Someone _PLEASE_!” Prompto’s shrieks rose above the base, absorbed into the dark sky. Mal shoved Prompto’s head forcefully into the dirt, causing him to choke again.

Even though he knew it was futile, Prompto bucked his hips in one last effort to unseat the general, and Mal clobbered him on the back of his head with his fist, rendering Prompto motionless.

There was a firm pressure, followed by a tearing pain. The blond pressed his eyes shut and hoped his death would be less agonizing, but he wasn’t optimistic.

Time had stopped. He went far away, watching the events unfold as if it were a movie.

Prompto thought it would never end, the maniacal laughter from the guards playing on a loop in his mind.

“Malcolm!” The shrill voice cut through the mist hanging over him, bringing Prompto back down to Eos. He turned his head, a blurred image of a shocked Baby Agnus showing through the red that colored his vision.

It was quiet.

The pain was receding, replaced by a dull ache as Mal got abruptly to his feet.

“Bartholomew, what are you doing out here?” the question was angry and indignant.

 _Who’s Bartholomew_? Prompto wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was grateful for the momentary reprieve, no matter how slight.

“What am _I_ doing out here? What are _you_ …” There was an awkward pause. It was obvious to everyone exactly what was happening.

“Go back inside. This doesn’t concern you.” Prompto heard something in Mal’s voice that he had never heard before. It brought him back from the edge of the cliff he had been hanging from, taking hold in his heart. Uneasiness— _embarrassment_.

Agnus didn’t know the power he held. Now if he would only wield it.

Prompto prayed like he had never prayed before.

“No. _No_ , you need to stop this.”

“Take him back inside!” Mal growled, his usual composure falling to the wayside.

“Yes, sir,” the guards chorused, and they moved to pull Agnus away, but he skated out of reach, coming close enough that Prompto could make out spots of dirt on his leather boots.

“Malcolm, I don’t understand. _Why_?”

“The Empire must pay for their sins, Bartholomew. The Niffs are responsible for all our pain—all of Lucis’ suffering. They must be punished.” Mal’s voice had gone hard again, doubling down on his hateful rhetoric.

There was a sniffle as Agnus replied, “The only one inflicting pain here is _you_ , brother. What would our mother think?”

Prompto heard some scuffling, shoes brushing across the yard, then nothing, save for his labored inhales. Baby Agnus had left with the other Glaives leaving only Prompto and Mal. The knowledge of the general’s atrocities hung heavy in the air between them.

When Mal spoke again, it had the same effect as sticking metal into an electrical socket. “Once I deal with the mess you’ve made, I will make you regret ever having been born.”

Prompto let the darkness take him after that, and he hoped it wouldn’t give him back.


	7. Doom Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After surviving Mal yet again, Prompto is given a rare opportunity. 
> 
> **TW: Gun Violence**

Prompto recognized the sterile white of the infirmary and the steady beeping of the monitor he was connected to, wires attached strategically on his chest to show on a nearby screen that, yes, he was still very much alive.

_Fuck._

His skin pulled taut across his forehead, and Prompto reached to feel along his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, unsurprised to find them tender and swollen. A man in black scrubs poked his head around the partition that separated him from a row of several other beds, the designated healer for Formouth Garrison, Dr. Josef Barnes. He’d seen Prompto on several occasions.

“You’re awake.”

Barnes was different from the other Glaives at the base. Although he had the same angular features and dark hair, he had never cursed at Prompto or treated him unkindly. The sharpshooter couldn’t figure out how he factored in to Mal’s plans. He would patch up the general’s victims and send them back to their cages without comment, aiding in the other Glaives’ crimes, but never stooping to their level of cruelty.

Prompto would have rather been treated like shit to better justify his hatred for him. Dr. Barnes had the power to help, but instead he sat back and watched. Prompto wasn’t sure if that made him better or worse than the guards. 

“Take this.” Barnes handed Prompto a vial, most likely some type of potion.

“Why should I?” Prompto asked bitterly. 

_They’re just going to kill me anyway._

Dr. Barnes continued to hold it out patiently until Prompto took it, downing the medicine like a shot. Prompto immediately felt the fluid draining from his face, the strange sensation of something knitting together making him go cross-eyed for a second. He shook his head, sticking his tongue out in an attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth, and was surprised to hear the healer chuckle.

“Get as much rest as you can. You will go back to your cell after dinner.” Dr. Barnes moved to slip behind the curtain, but then stopped, looking down at the blond with a curious expression. “…Private Agnus wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry.” Prompto’s eyes jumped up to meet the physician’s in surprise. Barnes shrugged, then continued on his way, leaving his ward to ponder the message alone.

Dinner came quicker than he expected, and although he had no appetite, Prompto swallowed every bite of the flavorless food provided to him—in case it was to be his last meal. As Dr. Barnes said, he was escorted back to his cell afterwards, this time not by Scar, but by Small-Mouth, a newer Glaive who hadn’t learned how to be mean to him yet. He’d learn eventually.

Once alone, Prompto sat on his cot, wide awake. He was grateful for the new jumpsuit he had been provided, but although it covered him from head to toe, any time he closed his eyes he’d feel like he was being dragged naked across the activity yard all over again—an uncomfortable pressure deep inside him. There was no way he was going to sleep, but he pulled his blanket up around him anyway to comfort himself, kicking a leg out in surprise when something cold and hard fell into his lap.

Frowning, he lifted up the blanket slightly, staring down at a small metal key affixed to a folded piece of paper. Looking around to ensure no one was watching, he plucked the key off the note and set it aside, opening the page to squint at it in the dim light.

Prompto began to read the scrawling handwriting, elegant and clean.

_Dear Mr. Argentum,_

_Allow me to begin this letter by offering you a formal apology. I allowed my love for my brother to blind me to who he is, and I fear you have suffered tremendously as a result. For that, I am deeply and sincerely sorry._

_Malcolm is having me transferred to another post tomorrow, presumably to keep me from assisting you in any way and has instructed me to maintain my silence or risk the safety of the others imprisoned at Formouth. I know now what his true intentions are, and I pray that this key will give you the opportunity to secure your freedom before it is too late. It can be used to unlock any of the cell gates, and I am sure my brother will be missing it soon, so please act quickly._

_Thank you for opening my eyes. I never had the chance to tell you this in person, but I had heard of you and Prince Noctis long before your arrival and always fancied you a hero of mine, along with His Majesty’s other royal retainers. I hope we both live to see the day that the True King returns so we may have the chance to walk in the sun together._

_I leave you now with these parting words, written during my time at the Altissian Academy of the Arts. Though they may be few, I hope they bring you strength._

_‘You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed.’_

_Yours in darkness,_

_Bartholomew Agnus-Coluber_

Prompto reread the letter once, twice, and a third time, committing it to memory as best he could before tearing the page into pieces and swallowing its remains. Baby Agnus—he would never know him any differently—had given him the greatest gift, and he meant to use it, but he had to be smart.

The guard change would happen soon. He could tell by the way Snake-Eyes kept yawning and looking at his watch, and that meant there would be a short window of time that no Glaives would be on the floor. They’d eat dinner in their break room together, and hopefully spend a little extra time making small talk.

“Hey,” Prompto whispered to the person in the cell next to him. When they didn’t react, he tapped the fence, making it jingle. “Hey, _psst!”_ They finally looked over, blinking at him in question. “I’m busting out of here, and if you want to come with, you’ll need to listen carefully.” The other refugee snorted, obviously believing that he couldn’t be serious—or that he had lost his godsdamned mind. Unable to waste any time explaining, Prompto retrieved the key from where it lay and held it up so that it caught the light. It had his desired reaction for the audience of one—eyes widening and mouth gaping.

Holding one finger to his lips, Prompto crept over to his gate and used the key on the lock, holding his breath as it unlatched, the ‘click’ as loud as a gunshot in his mind. No Glaives came running though, and he looked over his shoulder. His neighbor was sitting straight up now, attention devoted completely to Prompto. With a slight nod, the man placed his hand against the fence, taking the key with silent resolve when the sharpshooter offered it.

“Pass this on to the others. When the Glaives leave, we’ll go out the back of the facility and around to the front gate,” Prompto murmured.

He watched as his fellow prisoner moved to put the spontaneous plan into action, the key making its way down the rows as it was handed off one-by-one with muted explanations. The guards on duty didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. They’d been on their feet for hours already and had grown lax in their supervision. As far as Prompto knew, no one had attempted to escape Formouth, so they had no reason to suspect someone would try to now.

Prompto sat with bated breath until the Glaives began making their way to the guards’ room, on his feet the moment the last of them was out of sight. Time was of the essence. He pushed his gate open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. The person beside him mirrored his actions, and soon everyone was moving in quiet tandem like a ripple on the surface of a lake.

They tip-toed in a line and out the back door, footsteps barely audible as they filed out like ants into the yard. Without four walls to cower inside, his anxiety spiked, but Prompto pushed ahead, aware that people were following his lead—relying on him. They clung to the walls, more comfortable in the shadows than the light radiating from Formouth’s industrial sized spotlights. Prompto’s breath was a thick cloud that came and went, and when they neared the front gate of the base, he dared to glance behind him, waiting for the others to catch up.

There were more of them than he had anticipated, at least thirty if not more. He suspected some people remained behind as they were not bold enough to try and escape, but he was thankful to have a group of people with him. When he saw Carwyn and Vidar amongst the escapees, he grinned. This was going to work—they were going to make it.

“Lead the way, Prompto,” Carwyn urged.

“Everyone wait here. I’ll make sure the coast is clear. Keep an eye out for guards,” Prompto instructed. Years ago, he had infiltrated Formouth with Noctis and the others to fight against the Empire, and now here he was trying to save a bunch of Niflheimians from the Kingsglaive at the same base. Two sides of the same coin.

Life was a funny thing.

Prompto slipped inside the small building directly beside the garrison’s entrance, the same one where he had first met Baby Agnus to be processed. He was relieved to find there was no one inside, and he was able to creep behind the front desk unchallenged. There was a slew of monitors along the back wall displaying live camera feeds within the complex, and he gave them a quick once-over to see if there might be any Glaives lurking nearby. It looked like a couple were posted outside, but nothing they wouldn’t be able to handle. He moved on to the control panel, flipping the switch for the main gate, head cocking as he heard the grinding of gears as the doors slid open.

It was now or never.

Prompto ran to rejoin the others, and they began to jog alongside him as they left Formouth Garrison, the dark shapes of the Leiden countryside stretching endlessly before them. They rushed right into two surprised guards as they fled, but the soldiers went down easily with a punch from Vidar and several hits from another man Prompto didn’t know by name. The refugees couldn’t resist aiming a few kicks at the unconscious soldiers’ ribs, and Vidar spit on the ground, cursing angrily.

“Fucking bastards. Burn in hell.” Prompto could see that some were tempted to do more, but he shook his head, insistent.

“We need to cover as much ground as possible before they realize we’re gone. Let’s go.” Seeing the sense in his words, they snagged the flashlights the guards were carrying and continued on. It was even colder outside the facility, but the refugees stayed warm by running, a chorus of panting serving as the theme song for their journey. 

Prompto knew that if they found the road, they could follow it south to Hammerhead, but he also knew they’d be more likely to be seen that way. Although it was dangerous, staying off the beaten path would be best, so he tried to orient himself and hoped he was heading in the right direction.

Formouth was still visible in the distance when the alarms started to ring out, low whines steadily growing into mind-splitting shrieks. Everyone picked up their pace as searchlights began to scan the area. People tripped, unable to make out roots and rocks in their haste, but they would be immediately swept up by someone beside them and pulled along. No one was getting left behind—not tonight. 

The sirens were loud, but Prompto’s heartbeat was louder, and at first he didn’t hear the purr of the engines drawing closer.

“Look!” someone cried, and everybody did, slowing down just enough that they wouldn’t fall over each other.

Prompto felt his stomach jump into his throat at the sight of a parade of high beams barreling down the road towards them. The armored vehicles looked as big as behemoths, and even more menacing with gun turrets mounted on their roofs like tanks. Over a loudspeaker, they could hear a message being relayed.

“Return to Formouth Garrison _immediately,_ or else! I repeat, return to the base _immediately_.”

“Like hell we will!” Vidar seethed.

“We need to hide,” Carwyn said practically.

“Turn off the flashlights!” another voice shouted as one of the search beams cut across their path. No one argued, the flashlights extinguished.

“Get away from the road!” Prompto yelled, and they started to move further inland, scrambling in the dark for anything that might make a good hiding place.

The vehicles were slowing to park, and there were shouts as shadowy figures disembarked, Glaives giving chase. They had a good head start, but the soldiers had hand lights and weapons while they only had the jumpsuits on their backs. Prompto was starting to worry about how they’d manage to escape when a startled cry rang out. He heard a thud as someone fell and immediately skidded to a halt, turning to locate the person.

“Keep going!” Prompto said when others stopped too. There wasn’t any hesitation as they did as they were told, the sounds of the Glaives trudging through the scarce greenery growing more prominent with every passing second.

Prompto found the refugee and dropped to one knee, recognizing the man immediately as Carwyn.

“Go on—I twisted my ankle, I won’t be able to keep up,” he gasped. Every muscle in Prompto’s body tensed as gunfire rang out, pops of fire flashing from the direction where the armored cars were parked. They were shooting from the turrets now, bullets whizzing through the night at random. 

“Prompto, they will kill us all. _Please_ , save yourself,” Carwyn begged. Even though Prompto knew he was probably right, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon him—not after the stranger had placed his trust and hope in him.

“I’m not leaving you,” Prompto answered stubbornly. “Come on.” Wrapping one arm around the older man, Prompto helped him limp over to a large boulder, the two of them slipping behind it to take cover. Carwyn leaned his head against the stone as he slid to the ground, chest rising and falling rapidly. Prompto racked his brain as he tried to come up with a plan.

He was in the midst of assembling the bare bones of an idea when a new sound joined the discordant cacophony of noises already battling for supremacy. A blood-curdling roar, this time from the dark behind them.

“What was that?” Carwyn’s voice quivered. Prompto knew the answer, and his palms grew clammy, anguished screams reaching them, coming from the same direction.

“An iron giant.” Prompto tried to look for the refugees, but there wasn’t enough light to see them by. The only sign that they were still out there somewhere was the steady influx of yelling.

This was a disaster—and it was all his fault. Crouching down, Prompto put his head in his hands and gripped his hair, resolve fading fast. To make matters worse, the Glaives were closing in, and it was only a matter of time before they stumbled upon their hiding spot.

“What do I do? What do I do?” He was panicking, chest tight, head pounding from the pressure of his heart pumping too fast for his body to keep up with.

_Ignis—Gladio—Noctis—what do I do?_

Prompto’s head jerked up when Carwyn’s hand came to rest on his leg, a simple gesture of reassurance. “It’s going to be all right.”

“You don’t know that,” Prompto cried, and he shook his head, tears dripping onto the ground between his feet.

“You’re right, but I believe it. Now _think._ ” Carwyn was right. The time for wallowing was over—it was time to fight.

“This way!”

Prompto heard the Glaive on the other side of the boulder and instinctively popped up, knees bent in preparation. Carwyn slowed his breathing so it was inaudible, shoving himself into a crouch despite his pain.

Footsteps, and another voice—

“Ha! They’re giant fodder by now. One less problem to worry about.” There were two guards, and probably more behind them. Prompto glanced over at Carwyn, and he made out the shadow of a smile as the injured man’s lips pulled up.

Then, Carwyn shoved Prompto back and stepped out from behind the rocks without warning, hands raised in surrender. Prompto didn’t have time to react before Carwyn got gunned down.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The sharpshooter slapped both hands over his mouth to strangle a disturbed shout.

“Got one!”

“What a dumbass.”

“Fucking Niffs. Glad we finally have a reason to get rid of them.”

Prompto’s hands slowly came down to his sides, balling into fists as his body shook with rage. He could see the Glaives step into view, one kicking the body on the ground, confirming Carwyn was dead. They couldn’t see him lying in wait—and they wouldn’t. The sharpshooter paused, saw his opening, and made his move.

It was satisfying to hear the first Glaive’s neck snap when Prompto wrenched his head to the side, and even more satisfying to wrestle the rifle from the guard’s dying hands to turn it on the second target. In the light that flickered from the end of the gun’s barrel, Prompto could see the man’s mouth rounded in surprise—just before the bullets shattered his skull and sent him flying backwards.

Prompto felt no remorse as he acquired extra ammo and weapons from the Glaives’ corpses, head swiveling to locate more enemies. Now that he had a gun in his hand, Prompto allowed his anger to submerge him, suffocating all other emotions.

With revenge on his mind, Prompto made sure he was locked and loaded, pleased to find the rifles were fixed with night vision lenses. Scrambling on top of the boulder, he was able to snipe several guards from a distance before drawing attention, taking out all of the turret gunners. When the Glaives became aware of someone firing at them, they started to assemble into groups, and the sharpshooter jumped down and took off, intent on reaching the fleet of trucks waiting on the road.

There was more light the closer he got to the cars, making it difficult to remain hidden. Prompto was only a short sprint away when he was finally spotted, shouts echoing with gunfire, and he fell onto his hands and knees to avoid getting sprayed with bullets. Scampering like a rat being chased by a cat, he put all of his effort into reaching the back tire of the last truck, rolling the last couple of feet.

A fist whizzed by his head, which Prompto narrowly avoided by falling onto his ass, kicking into the stomach of the Glaive who was bearing down on him. They grunted, dropping the curved blade in their hands, and Prompto snatched it up, shoving it through their leg to the sound of a nauseating crunch.

The Glaive bellowed like a dying animal, and Prompto slipped past the man into the back of the vehicle, hurdling up and onto the hood through the opening in the roof to the mounted heavy artillery. Bullets ricocheted off the barrier encircling the gunner’s chair, the Glaives now flocking back to where the cars were parked. Prompto was running out of time.

After pulling one of his kills out of the chair, Prompto plopped down and his hands switched to autopilot, swiveling the large gun with all his strength. He began to fire, sweeping indiscriminately. The vibrations from the recoil made him bounce in the chair, the armored vehicle rocking. Glaives were dropping like flies everywhere he looked, a rain of crimson shimmering in the headlights. Prompto made sure not to stop until nothing moved.

Bodies peppered the landscape, black blobs blending in with the rugged scenery. Prompto took a moment to set his head against the turret, closing his eyes.

More screams sounded in the night, reminding him his work wasn’t done. Exhausted, but still high on adrenaline, Prompto swung himself down into the cab and tossed his weapons on the floor, taking over the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition. Revving the engine, he slammed on the accelerator and took the truck off-road, dodging obstacles as he barreled out into the countryside, searching for the refugees.

When he found what he was looking for, it was worse than he feared. Men and women were strewn across the ground, blood trailing from their half eaten or half crushed forms. Every so often he would find a single arm or leg—the body it belonged to nowhere to be seen. Swallowing hard, Prompto followed the carnage in search of anyone who might still be alive. He ended up driving to where the land dropped away over a steep ridge, slowing the vehicle to a crawl at the dead end. That’s when he spotted them. Just beyond the reach of the headlights were a pair of glowing red eyes floating in space.

His skin crawled, hair standing on end.

He knew in his gut that there were no survivors.

Prompto wished he could scream, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

The iron giant lumbered into view, its gigantic blade painted red with the blood of the Niflheimians who had met their demise by its hand—the same blade it now waved at Prompto.

He threw the car in reverse, rotating the steering wheel forcefully. The jerky movement combined with the acceleration tilted the vehicle on its axis, and Prompto yelled as it overturned, flipping multiple times. Not buckled in, Prompto found himself being flung into the window, then the ceiling, and back down, glass cracking from the force of his weight. His head swam.

The iron giant let loose a guttural cry and Prompto tried to look for a way out, even as he struggled to determine which way was up. There was a grinding of metal caving in, and the smell of gas. Prompto could hear the clanging of the iron giant’s sword hitting the truck, slicing through the chassis.

His hands finally managed to shove open one of the doors and he started to run, stumbling a little as the world spun. Prompto tried to ignore the iron giant’s booming steps on his heels, but then there was an earthshattering explosion that threw him forward, the heat of fire licking the edges of his clothes, and he rolled onto his back to see the daemon engulfed in flames.

Frantic, the beast ran in a circle, tripping over its feet, and rolled over the edge of the crater, disappearing from sight. Prompto stared at the upended vehicle that was now little more than a husk, the heat from the burning metal enough to cover Prompto in a sheen of sweat.

Prompto’s chest hurt from where his heart had been slamming inside it, and he finally laid back, throwing both arms over his face.

He screamed into the void. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dr. Barnes is named Josef as a reference to Josef Mengele, the most infamous and terrifying physician in the Holocaust. He was stationed at the Auschwitz concentration camp where he performed deadly human experiments on prisoners and was a member of the team of doctors who selected victims to be killed in the gas chambers.  
> \- ‘You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed' is a Mexican proverb, but has also been attributed to the Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos.


	8. Nowhere to Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto finds his way to Hammerhead where he hopes to continue his journey to freedom.

_You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed._

Prompto found himself reciting Agnus’s words to himself as he traversed the dark terrain, traveling parallel to the highway that would take him to Hammerhead.

The loss of the refugees bore down on him, a weight that made the sharpshooter’s legs heavy and slow.

His sweat had cooled, leaving the blond shivering, a bitter wind whipping straight through the thin cloth of his prison uniform, and the rollover had made his brain fuzzy, the blow to the head compounded with his fatigue and hunger rendering Prompto near delirious.

Every shadow that shifted made him jump. Loose rocks that he himself kicked, startled him into a jog more times than he could count.

When the illuminated shark motif of the rest stop crested the horizon and came into view, Prompto nearly cried. It almost felt too good to be true.

Feet blistered and numb, he stumbled through the parking lot, ignoring the strange looks he received from the hunters who were lingering outside of Takka’s diner. Their cigarette smoke curled up like incense and the escapee inhaled the bitter scent. He never thought he’d miss the smell that he had come to associate with the rest stop, but he didn’t have time to linger and enjoy it. Prompto had one destination in mind, and although he had already been through hell, he knew he had to keep going.

The garage’s doors were thrown open, a soft blue light coming from within. Prompto staggered, catching himself against the entryway, and a head of blonde hair shot up from behind one of the cars in the shop, a pair of green eyes widening in shock.

“Prompto?” she asked incredulously. The woman looked like she had just seen a ghost.

 _Oh gods_ —how he had missed that drawl.

Cindy Aurum dropped the wrench she was holding, letting it bounce on the concrete as she ran to Prompto, throwing her arms around him in a crushing embrace. The sharpshooter slumped in her toned arms, suddenly too weak to stand.

“Prompto, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?” she held him at arm’s length, focusing on the dried blood that polka-dotted down the front of his jumper. He followed her gaze, realizing how he must have looked with his hair disheveled, covered in dirt and bodily fluids.

Like a zombie—or a daemon.

“No, I’m okay.” It wasn’t exactly true, but it would take too long to explain, and he was tired— _so_ tired. He was safe at last, and that’s what mattered.

“Last I heard you were in Formouth. A message came out over the radio not long ago. They got the hunters lookin’ out for ‘armed and dangerous’ criminals on the loose.” Fear reared its ugly head and Prompto shuddered; this time it wasn’t from the cold.

“I was at Formouth, but I escaped. Cindy, I need to get out of here.” Cindy bit her lip as she continued to scan her friend worriedly.

“All right sugar, let me just call Ignis or Gladio—”

“No!” Cindy jerked back in response to Prompto’s sudden exclamation and he fought to remain calm. “No, _please_ —no one can know I’m here,” he said, evening out his tone.

He knew he couldn’t risk getting Ignis and Gladio involved or they would become Mal’s next targets. Better for him to disappear and everyone believe he had died in the iron giant’s rampage than to place his friends in jeopardy.

Cindy gave a hesitant nod, hurrying to slide the garage doors closed as a group of hunters walked by, securing them with a chain for extra security.

“I dunno what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into Prompto, but I’ll do what I can to help. I know some good people in Old Lestallum who might could give you a ride out that way. They can be here in a day or so, if that’s alright.”

Prompto had sat down, too exhausted to be on his feet any longer, and shook his head from where it hung between his knees.

“Okay,” he finally agreed. He flinched when Cindy came to rest her hands on his shoulders, and she pulled back as if she had touched a hot stovetop. “Sorry,” Prompto apologized. When he lifted his chin to offer a weak smile, he was surprised to see tears in the mechanic’s eyes.

“Oh, Prompto, honey.”

His throat constricted, lower lip trembling. This time when Cindy reached out for him, he leaned into her touch, allowing her to run a hand through his hair as he tried to erase the memory of Mal’s fist gripping tight, yanking him backwards.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she offered.

With a shaking breath, Prompto let Cindy help him, following her to the back of the garage where she had a modest apartment. There were two rooms barely bigger than a closet, each with a twin bed (one for her and one for Cid) and across from them was a bathroom and a kitchen, just wide enough to fit a table and two chairs among the cooking essentials.

“I’ll see if Paw Paw has any clothes that’ll fit ya,” Cindy said as she helped Prompto to the bathroom. “He’s in Lestallum until tomorrow so you can bed down in his room for as long as ya need.”

“Thank you.” Prompto tried to smile again. It made his mouth feel strange; the action was foreign to him now.

When he shut the door, the blond placed both hands on the sink and stared into the mirror. Prompto hadn’t seen his reflection in months and was hardly surprised that he barely recognized himself. There were faded scars along his eyes and nose from the repeated beatings, and his hair had grown wild. A smattering of gold lined his chin and jaw—he’d never been able to grow a beard like Gladio, but he had built up a good amount of peach fuzz while at Formouth. Prompto ran his palm over it as he watched a pair of sunken blue eyes blink back at him. They looked more like a stranger’s than his own.

Prompto turned on the water and blocked the drain to run a bath. His didn’t think he could stand in the shower even if he wanted to. While the tub was filling, he rummaged in the cabinets and found an electric razor that belonged to Cid and a pair of scissors. It didn’t take long to remove the excess hair from his head and face, and he surveyed his handiwork once he was done, thankful that he looked more like the version of himself he was used to.

Once the bath was ready, he stripped out of his jump suit and lowered himself into the hot water, moaning loudly at the instant relief it gave his muscles. He placed his head back against the cool tiles and inhaled, slow and deep, willing his body to relax as he sought to scrub off the grime that had accumulated on his skin.

Some things, however, could never be washed away, and Prompto heard the ghosts of screams in the night—the dying breaths of all those he couldn’t save.

Cindy knocked later, the water having gone cold, and spoke to Prompto through the closed door.

“Prompto? There are some clothes here for ya and food on the stove. I’m gonna go make those phone calls now, but help yourself.” Prompto made a noise of acknowledgement before pulling the plug and climbing out of the bathtub. Opening the door a crack, he grabbed what Cindy had left for him, pulling on a loose pair of pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. They were incredibly soft compared to the cheap material of his jumper, and Prompto found himself rubbing his fingers across them in appreciation.

Now dressed, Prompto padded barefoot into the tiny kitchen, mouth watering as he smelled the lasagna Cindy had prepared. He ate the entire pan and was still hungry afterwards, at the same time more satisfied than he had been in weeks.

Clean, clothed, and fed, Prompto felt his head starting to nod, the physical and mental drain finally taking its toll. Before he could fall asleep at the table, he pushed himself to his feet and limped into one of the bedrooms, collapsing face first into the pillow.

* * *

Prompto slept deeply and didn’t dream, although he did have a moment of panic when he woke up and couldn’t remember where he was. It was the sound of Cindy working in the garage that settled his galloping heart, and he lay in bed for a few minutes, enjoying the sensation of being well-rested and not having to worry about a guard invading his space to harass him unannounced.

Eventually nature called, and he shuffled into the bathroom, splashing water on his face to flush the last traces of sleep from his eyes. Cindy was waiting for him when he emerged, and he returned her smile more easily this time with one of his own.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Cindy’s laugh warmed Prompto’s heart, and he reached up instinctively to feel his untamed hair, groaning. “Ya sleep alright?”

“Seems like it, huh?” He grinned and found Cindy beaming at him, placing her hands on her slender hips.

“There he is—that’s the Prompto I know and love! For a minute there, I thought he was gone for good.” Prompto’s smile slid off his face as quickly as it had come and he shrugged, sheepish.

It was too much, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze again.

“Well, anyway,” she started to say, seeming to understand she had touched a nerve, “Those people I told ya about? They’ll be comin’ tonight. Until then, just lay low.”

“Thank you, Cindy. Really. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” Prompto spread his hands helplessly, and Cindy reached out for his tattoed arm, fingers tracing the image of Leviathan along his biceps and down to his elbow where she took hold.

“We don’t have to talk about it, but you know I’ll always lend an ear if ya need it.” She squeezed for emphasis, and he didn’t trust himself to speak, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

Cindy left him alone after that, and Prompto just _was_. Occasionally his thoughts would run away to someplace dark, but he’d bring himself back to center with a few deep breaths, keeping busy by flipping through the random magazines and books he found on the small shelf inside Cid’s room. The day passed by without him realizing it, and Cindy poked her head in later, chuckling when she found him curled up under the blankets with a copy of _Hot Rods & Racing_.

“Hey there!”

“Heyaz,” Prompto answered, trying to sound cheerful.

_Practice makes perfect, right?_

“I’m heading over to the diner to wait for my friends. I’ll give you a holler on the shop phone when it’s time to come over, so keep an ear out, y’hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Prompto replied, and he saluted for good measure, which Cindy rewarded with a giggle.

He laid back and laced his fingers behind his head, closing his eyes briefly.

* * *

The telephone jerked him out of sleep, and Prompto threw the covers aside, hopping out of bed and into the garage to grab the phone where it vibrated in its cradle.

“Hello?” he answered breathlessly. 

“Prompto?” As he suspected, it was Cindy. “Come on over to the diner, your ride is here.” The line cut off before Prompto could respond. With nothing of his own to grab, he walked out of the shop and across Hammerhead’s deserted parking lot, the static hum of the lights overhead the only audible noise. The diner’s blinds were drawn, a closed sign flipped on the door, but it was unlocked, and he pushed it open, strolling into the restaurant without pausing.

Takka wasn’t behind the counter, and he slowed, hearing the gentle clatter of silverware and a glass being set on a hard surface.

Prompto turned, and his entire frame went rigid, heart stopping in his chest.

General Malcolm Coluber was sitting at the counter with one leg crossed over the other, and he lifted a mug of coffee in greeting, smiling as he took a sip.

Prompto backpedaled, slamming into a Glaive that he hadn’t heard sneak up behind him. At the same time, another guard stepped out from the back, one hand guiding a disheveled Cindy roughly by her arm, the other holding a gun to her head threateningly.

Prompto took the situation in as all the color drained from his face, head swirling so that he felt like he might faint.

“Prompto, I’m sorry,” Cindy breathed, a sob escaping her. “They got Paw Paw and Takka—” The Glaive nudged her in the ribs, and she shut her mouth with a whimper. Prompto held his arms out in supplication and begged, aware he was in no position to bargain.

“Please— _please_ , don’t hurt her!”

“Hurt her? What kind of monster do you think I am?” Mal patted the seat next to him, still wearing his signature smug smile. When Prompto didn’t move right away the general took another swallow of his beverage. “No harm will come to her so long as you do as I say.” With a wave of his hand, Mal sent Cindy and her captor away, the two of them disappearing behind the swinging doors and into the kitchen. “Sit.”

Prompto felt the firmness of a gun barrel against his spine and he took a few steps forward before sitting next to Mal, the red cushioned seat giving under his weight. He clenched the countertop to keep his white-knuckled hands from shaking and focused on the coffee stain ring in front of him. Mostly, Prompto tried to avoid Mal’s piercing gaze as it seared into his skin.

“Bravo—if it weren't for the hunters who tipped us off to your location, you just might have escaped. All things considered, you got much further than I anticipated, although you created quite a mess in the process. Fifty-seven people are dead because of you.” Mal tsked and Prompto felt like he had been thrown off a cliff. He was freefalling—and the longer the general talked the closer he came to the ground, his horror growing at a breakneck speed.

“You will be returning to Formouth Garrison to await the judge’s verdict. Marshal Leonis has already been made aware of the riot you incited and the guards you murdered—not to mention the other refugees you led to slaughter. Since you have already proven to be a danger to yourself and others, you will most likely be sentenced to death— perhaps by firing squad.” Mal swirled a spoon steadily in his coffee mug as he spoke, the metal scraping on porcelain setting Prompto even more on edge.

“Furthermore, if you don’t obey my every order until the very end, I will make it my life’s mission to kill all the people you love, starting with the old man who runs this shit hole—then your dear friends, Ignis and Gladio.”

The air trapped in Prompto’s lungs had caught fire, his eyes watering from the strain of holding it in.

Mal pivoted in his chair to face Prompto fully, a sinister smirk crawling across his lips.

“As for your lady friend, well…you know better than most what lurks in dark alleyways. It would be a shame if something were to happen to her.”

Prompto couldn’t think—he could only react.

His fists went flying at Mal’s face, clawing at the man’s eyes with a guttural scream, but the general was faster than he looked for someone of his build and slammed the heel of his hand against Prompto’s throat, sending him careening over the counter and crashing into the cooking equipment behind it, pots tumbling and plates breaking on impact. Prompto rolled, fury making him quick, and he grabbed the first thing he found—a frying pan—and flung it at Mal’s head. Mal dodged with a side-step, dagger already drawn, and he took one powerful jump over the bar to close the space between them, blade flashing as it came forward.

Prompto fell back to avoid a slash to the abdomen, tumbling head over heels to land on his feet. He bolted, but a Glaive was blocking his way out, and the man caught him in his arms with a grunt, snatching at Prompto’s wrists.

The sharpshooter let loose an animalistic cry, arms and legs thrashing to throw the guard off balance.

 _Wham_ — _crack_!—the Glaive screamed as his knee dislocated from the force of Prompto’s kick and he landed hard on the tile, grabbing at his leg. Prompto had torn the man’s gun away as he went down and was whirling to take aim, only to have the weapon knocked from his grip by Mal, a blade swooping down to press against his Adam’s apple.

Prompto stopped when he felt the sharp edge draw blood and immediately turned his hands out in a show of surrender.

An image flashed in his mind—Carwyn, gunned down wordlessly, sacrificing himself for his sake.

Prompto closed his eyes and he heard Mal’s deep chuckle.

“There is nowhere you can run from me, Prompto. Now, stop playing games and come along.”

Prompto’s eyes, pools of black surrounded by thin rings of ice, panned up to the general’s face. Mal sheathed his dagger, confident that the sharpshooter wouldn’t willingly put his friends in danger. The Glaive on the ground groaned, but neither Prompto nor Mal moved, locked in a silent battle of wills.

_Die fighting and risk everything, or submit, putting his life in the hands of fate._

Mal looked expectant. It was Prompto’s choice.

The clock on the wall ticked, growing louder with the realization of its existence.

Prompto was the first to look away. He bowed his head, bringing his arms to his side.

“Please. Do whatever you want to me, but leave everyone else out of it,” he pleaded.

“I plan to,” Mal boasted. The general brushed his hand along the nape of Prompto’s neck, relishing in the shiver it induced in his victim. With a few quick instructions from their leader, the other Glaives emerged to help collect their injured comrade, and Prompto allowed Mal to guide him out of the diner, the remaining soldiers joining them outside once their work was done.

Cindy, now freed, rushed out of the restaurant to watch as Mal shoved Prompto into the front seat of a car that was waiting for them, her expression contorted with sorrow and regret.

The last thing Prompto wanted was for her to blame herself, so he mustered all of his remaining strength—

With it, he smiled.

The truck roared to life as the keys turned in the ignition, and Prompto found himself sandwiched between Mal and the driver, but they didn’t seem nearly as troubled to share such close quarters. They knew he was done fighting—he was no longer a threat. Sitting in awkward silence, Prompto watched as Hammerhead disappeared in the rearview, and with it, buried any remaining belief that he would make it out of Formouth alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "If you're going through hell, keep going" is often attributed to Winston Churchill, although there is no written documentation confirming he actually said it. Still a badass saying though.  
> \- “blonde hair shot up from behind one of the cars...” Did you know that the word ‘blond’ (no e on the end) is used to describe males and ‘blonde’ is used for females? Neither did I until my wife told me. Leave it to the editor to know such a minute detail!  
> \- "I know some good people in Old Lestallum who might could give you a ride out that way," I used the colloquial 'might could' here because it's used often in the south and fit perfectly with Cindy's vernacular.  
> \- Fan art by the talented Mysterious Bean [ HERE](https://mysteriousbean5.tumblr.com/post/186551300791/a-quick-sketch-between-work-stuff-prom-giving)


	9. Unanswered Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto returns to Formouth and awaits sentencing for the crimes he has been wrongfully accused of.

Formouth Garrison awaited them with open arms, gate flung wide in anticipation of their arrival. After pulling the truck inside, the doors groaned as they inched shut, the sound of their giant mechanisms locking in place like the final nail in a coffin.

It was quiet. In any other setting it would have seemed almost peaceful, but to Prompto, it was like the world was holding its breath, all eyes following him as he was taken into the hanger and past the rows of now mostly empty cells.

They were heading towards Mal’s office. Prompto tried to summon any remaining dignity.

_Stay strong. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry._

To his surprise, they veered off before reaching it, going back outside and into the activity yard. Prompto’s thoughts were jumbled as he tried to anticipate where the general might be taking him. When it became apparent they were going into the bathhouse instead, his stomach fluttered nervously.

A guard opened the door ahead, and Prompto walked straight through without faltering, trying to pull his shoulders back—to keep calm—his expression neutral.

“Strip,” Mal ordered flatly once inside the changing area. Prompto did so, his back to him so the general wouldn’t see the fear in his eyes. The blond took a moment to inhale the lingering scent of smoke clinging to Cid’s borrowed sweatshirt as he pulled it over his head, shimmying out of his pants before turning back around.

He lifted his chin and faked bravery. 

A Glaive shoved Prompto towards the showers, and he took the hint, walking into the tiled room. He tired not to think about when he met Vidar and Carwyn, the memory even more painful now.

Prompto jumped a little when he saw Dr. Josef Barnes waiting for them inside. A bad feeling took root in his stomach, muscles contracting. The feeling intensified as a Glaive led him to one of the showerheads and positioned Prompto’s arms overhead, securing them to the pipe where it emerged from the wall with a pair of handcuffs. He had to stand on his toes to keep the metal from digging into his wrists, and he did so uncomfortably, calves already burning from the effort.

“It’s a pity I can’t mark you up like I want, but it wouldn’t do to have the Marshal suspecting anything is amiss.” Mal mused. “Lucky for you, I have plenty of other fun activities in store for our last days together.”

Prompto understood what he meant when Mal turned the water on full blast, brutal and scalding against his fair skin. The sharpshooter sputtered and yelped, his face in direct line with the stream, and he had to keep jerking his head to the side to breathe, slipping in his efforts to maintain upright at the same time. The handcuffs pinched anytime he moved and the combined sensations of being suffocated, burned, and cut all at once left him panic-stricken and frantic.

When the shower abruptly cut off, Prompto gasped loudly and pressed his face into the wall, hacking.

“Make sure he doesn’t pass out,” Mal instructed. Dr. Barnes gave a silent nod.

 _So that’s why he’s here,_ Prompto thought bitterly.

The next time the water turned on it was freezing cold, a shock to Prompto’s system. He turned his head away to scream, his cries echoing in the chamber with nowhere to go. Through the droplets that assaulted his eyes the blond saw the blurred image of a pleased Mal watching the torment unfold, the distortion serving as daemonic nightmare fuel for his dreams.

Prompto drifted in and out of darkness for what seemed like hours.

Any time his mind wanted to shut down he would be rudely yanked back into the present, usually by a slap or hit from a guard. Dr. Barnes hovered out of sight, ready to assist if needed.

At some point he became aware that the water had stopped. Prompto’s body ached all over, skin buzzing from the whiplash of hot and cold. When his hands were uncuffed, he nearly fell, a Glaive’s arms wrapping roughly around his torso to hold him.

He wasn’t aware of the walk to Mal’s office.

At some point his vision came into focus and he found himself alone and naked on the concrete floor, shivering.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Time ceased to exist in any real capacity.

All Prompto knew was torture or no torture.

He lost his voice early on, but he was glad. He was tired of hearing his own screams.

Prompto found a place in his mind to retreat whenever the pain came, but Mal knew all the ways to pull him out of his hiding place, and the general did so any time his victim got too quiet or seemed to dissociate—which was often.

Prompto prayed— _pleaded_ —with any and every Astral for an end to the suffering.

Death would be true freedom.

* * *

Prompto knew something had changed when a Glaive came into the windowless room and provided him with a brand-new jumpsuit. It still had his same number—308—but it was distinctively less worn than the one he had been given previously. He shrugged into it, silent, and noted how it bunched at his waist worse than before. The prominence of his ribs confirmed he had lost more weight, not that it would matter once he was dead.

Now properly clothed, the Glaive led him to the infirmary where he was force-fed potions by Dr. Barnes before being poked and prodded. Afterwards, they fed him, not the usual slop he had grown accustomed to, but actual meat and potatoes, even a slice of fruit. Not hungry, he pushed the food around his plate until he was ordered to eat it. Every swallow felt like sandpaper scraping his esophagus. The final touch was a trim of his hair, the cut performed by Dr. Barnes himself. When he was done, the doctor stood back to survey his ward. 

“The Marshal will be arriving shortly,” the physician explained, the treatment suddenly making sense. 

The end was coming, _thank the gods_ , Prompto thought. 

When he was returned to Mal’s office, the general was waiting for him at the lone metal table, just like he had when Prompto first arrived at Formouth.

So much had happened since then, and the blond saw his short life flash before his eyes as he came to sit across from his abuser, eventually lowering his gaze to the document and pen placed in front of him. Mal slid it closer to Prompto.

“This is a confession to the crimes you have committed here at Formouth,” he said. “By signing your name, you are attesting that the statement is true and accurate, ensuring a quick execution. If you try to fight it, well—” Mal sat back, folding his arms. “—I’ve already explained what will happen.”

Prompto stared down at the sheet of paper, vision tunneling. 

This was it—his ticket out of Formouth for good.

With one quivering hand, he picked up the pen, scrawling his signature at the bottom. When he set the implement down there was a sense of relief.

 _It will all be over soon_.

A knock on the door was followed by a guard entering. “Marshal Leonis is here, sir.” Prompto felt like he should react somehow, but he couldn’t find the energy to care. General Coluber folded Prompto’s confession and carefully placed it in an envelope before standing.

“Show him in.”

There was a flurry of activity as preparations were made, chairs brought and arranged in a semi-circle. Prompto was allowed to remain seated, and he watched with dead eyes as Marshal Cor Leonis arrived with a retinue of Kingsglaive, famed katana positioned at his hip. One of the guards set a small voice recorder on the table, pressing a red button so that a light flicked on, flashing steadily.

 _Great. Save that for posterity._ He wondered if they’d release his confession to the media and air it on the news when he was gone, immortalizing his supposed misdeeds. 

Cor paused when he saw Prompto, a flicker of surprise showing in the way his eyebrows furrowed and then rose in succession. He must have looked different from what the Marshal expected, and although Prompto was subdued, part of him was vindicated by the reaction.

_A lot worse than you thought? Yeah, motherfucker._

“Prompto.” Cor said his name like he had forgotten what it sounded like. All heads turned to the man in the gray jumpsuit, but Prompto only had eyes for the Marshal. Cor approached quietly, pulling out a chair to take a seat. He stared at Prompto for a few minutes and the prisoner met his gaze, undaunted.

“Marshal, I have his statement here,” Mal offered, and he handed Cor the envelope.

Cor read the letter it held without betraying any emotion, setting it aside once he finished and clasping his hands in his lap.

“Prompto, you’ve backed me into a corner.”

 _Was that supposed to be an apology? If so, it was a weak one,_ Prompto thought.

The Marshal sighed. “Ignis had managed to arrange for a probationary release before all of this happened, but now…” Cor shook his head before continuing. “…the judge has approved a motion to have your execution expedited. With your admission of guilt, there will be no trial.”

_Just as Mal planned._

Prompto hadn’t blinked since Cor took his seat, and the Marshal finally looked away, unnerved, showing the first signs of remorse. 

“I will give you the choice of how you die. I feel like you are owed that much.”

Prompto laughed. It was short at first—jagged as glass. Eyes snapped up in response to his reaction, and the laughter continued, growing louder until it shook Prompto’s malnourished frame. He found it difficult to stop once he started, and he threw his head back with abandon until he struggled to breathe.

“Oh, Marshal, that’s a good one,” Prompto hiccupped. “You don’t know the half of it. What I’m _owed_? You’ll never be able to give me that.”

_Ignis—_

_Gladio—_

_Noctis._

_The sunshine._

_My life back._

_None of it._

Mal was leaning against the back wall, watching Prompto like a hawk circling over its prey. The unstated threat was communicated in his glare.

_Come and get me then, you bastard._

“I choose me,” Prompto said. There was an uneasy stirring as witnesses shifted in their chairs. Cor scowled, deepening the wrinkles on his brow. Prompto realized then that his hair and beard had flecks of gray.

_Life’s a bitch._

“What do you mean?”

Prompto had tried to end his life once before. Back then, he had been too much of a coward to use his own gun. It was the pistol Noctis had gifted him when he joined the Crownsguard, and as silly as it was, it seemed disrespectful to use it in his own suicide. He’d settled for razors instead. It hurt more, which suited him just fine. While Prompto was bleeding out, he had shut his eyes and imagined the sun beating down on his face, hot enough to tinge his cheeks pink. Maybe he was on a beach somewhere—at Galdin Quay, laying on the pier. Noctis was fishing beside him, both of their shoes kicked off.

 _You’re an idiot, you know that?_ Noctis would say after he turned red with sunburn, new patches of freckles blossoming on his cheeks.

 _I know, but I’m_ your _idiot._

This time, Prompto wasn’t scared.

“I choose to kill myself.” Everything else had been taken from him, but this one thing Prompto would take for himself.

Someone in the crowd murmured, “Can he do that?”

Snickers came from those in the room, but Cor wasn’t laughing. The Marshal leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. 

“Are you sure?” Cor asked. There was a twinge of pain in the way his words softened, going rough at the end.

“Hand me a gun and I’ll do it right now,” Prompto claimed, folding his tattooed arms over his chest. The behemoth on one forearm looked like it was glaring at the Marshal with the way it was angled. 

“There are certain protocols that need to be observed,” Cor answered tightly, and Prompto smirked at the man’s irritation.

If the sharpshooter was going down, he was going to make it count.

The Marshal lifted his hand and a nearby Glaive brought forward a folder with a stack of papers inside, pulling out the one on top.

“Do you have any last words or requests?”

Prompto felt a surge of recklessness. _Hell, why not_? He flicked off the Marshal, grin stretching from ear to ear.

“ _Fuck_ you. And _you_ ,” Prompto nodded in Mal’s direction. The general’s face was drawn tight, unamused by Prompto’s antics. Cor was also unimpressed. The Marshal’s lips formed a line as he set the pen in his hand down. 

“Prompto, I hope you consider how you will be remembered by those who live on after you and take this seriously.” Prompto rolled his eyes at the reprimand. He was coming apart at the seams, and he couldn’t be bothered to listen, ceremony be damned.

_If Noctis isn’t going to be a part of this world, I don’t give a shit how people remember me._

His anger was swept aside by a debilitating sadness, causing his breaths to come short and shallow.

“…is there anything else?” Cor prodded gently.

Prompto took the question to heart this time. He knew he should say something eloquent or profound, maybe leave a message for his friends, let them know he loved them—that he was sorry—but nothing jumped out in his mind. Everything he thought of sounded cliché. How could he possibly condense his life and soul into a couple sentences? Maybe if he was a poet like Baby Agnus he could compose a decent eulogy, but he’d never been good with words.

After some deliberation, Prompto shook his head. “No, there’s nothing else.”

There was the sound of a pen scratching as Cor filled out the necessary paperwork. He rose when he finished, and everyone else followed suit, the tape recorder still running as a guard swept it up. They exited the office and turned out into the exercise area.

“Are you ready?”

Prompto wasn’t sure what Cor was referring to at first, but the Marshal didn’t repeat himself, offering his hand to take a pistol from the Glaive beside him. The blond circled to look at the grim expressions reflected at him as Cor held the weapon aloft, the barrel gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a precious gem.

 _Oh. Oh,_ now _?_

Prompto felt beads of sweat materialize on his forehead as he exhaled forcefully. He took the gun, weighing it in his hand.

“I’m sure I need not remind you that if you try to turn on anyone here, I will cut you down without hesitation.” Prompto shuddered at the Marshal’s words. He’d seen the man in action before—he’d take the gun over Cor’s blade any day. 

“I know.”

Cor procured Prompto’s confession once more and began to speak, unfolding the pages to review the charges against him. 

“I, Cor Leonis, Marshal of His Majesty’s Kingsglaive and keeper of the peace, hereby proclaim this sentence to Prompto Argentum for crimes against the crown and people of Lucis, which are as follows—” The Glaive that held the tape recorder wormed his way closer, making sure not to miss anything the Marshal said.

“—one count of aggravated assault on a commanding officer, General Malcolm Coluber—”

Prompto looked down at the weapon in his grasp, rubbing a thumb over the length of the barrel as Cor rattled on.

“—three counts of aggravated assault on members of the Kingsglaive, twenty-four counts of second-degree murder, thirty-three counts of involuntary manslaughter after inciting a riot—"

The blond lowered his head to stare between his feet. He admired the crystalized dew on the grass, drifting within the confines of his own head. When Cor got to the end, Prompto refocused, absorbing the man’s words.

“—the penalty for which is death. As you have signed, you confirm that these charges against you are correct and plead guilty, submitting yourself willingly for capital punishment.”

There was no sound. For a second, Prompto feared he might have gone deaf. Cor had put on a mask, standing on the ceremony of his station, which was his burden and curse.

“When you are ready, you may proceed,” the Marshal stated when Prompto didn’t speak. 

Prompto thought he had been ready, but his hesitation told him otherwise. The smirk on Mal’s face said the general would be more than happy to do the deed for him, something he wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —allow. So, he walked away from the group of uniformed onlookers to a corner of the yard and knelt, facing the fence as opposed to the Kingsglaive who would oversee his death.

He checked the chamber of the gun for bullets, more out of habit than anything, and removed the safety. Pulling the hammer back, he waited for the mechanism to click in place, fingering the trigger idly.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure who exactly he was apologizing to.

Vidar and Carwyn, for being unable to save them.

To Baby Agnus, for not being the hero he deserved.

Cindy, because he made her worry and put her in danger.

Ignis and Gladio—for destroying their friendships.

Noctis. For—well, everything and then some, he imagined.

Maybe even to himself. For giving up. No, not for giving up—for not being strong enough—for letting Mal win.

Prompto raised the gun to his head, positioning it with precision. He knew he wouldn’t miss. Inhaling slow, he applied gentle pressure on the trigger, embracing the darkness behind his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- My wife cried after reading this chapter. Yay??  
> \- Please don't hate me for this cliffhanger, I'm writing as fast as I can and will hopefully finish this fic up by this weekend! Thank you to everyone who has read this far. You guys are awesome.


	10. Uneven Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You're much too young now, so I'll write these words down:_  
>  _Darkness exists to make light truly count._ \- "Uneven Odds" by Sleeping at Last

“WAIT!” The shriek pierced through the emptiness, reaching Prompto’s ears before he could pull the trigger. He credited his Crownsguard training for not startling and accidentally shooting himself even as he fell back in surprise at the unexpected interruption.

A stunned murmur rippled through the Kingsglaive as they moved to accommodate the stranger who was pushing through their ranks. Prompto craned his neck to see who could be bold enough to crash an execution, and was shocked to see Baby Agnus step into the light, panting hard enough to create a visible cloud whenever he exhaled.

Mal’s face immediately twisted into a snarl. “Bartholomew! What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go to Fort Vaullery,” the general snapped, enraged.

The young Glaive put his hands on his knees, still catching his breath while shaking his head adamantly. Prompto watched, slack-jawed, unsure what exactly was happening. Finally, Baby Agnus straightened, addressing Cor.

“Marshal, you can’t kill him!” he cried.

“Excuse me, but who _are_ you?” the Marshal demanded. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword and was eyeing Agnus suspiciously as if he were debating whether to apprehend him by force. Prompto almost laughed at how incredulous it all was.

“Bartholomew Agnus-Coluber, and you can’t kill Mr. Argentum, sir, he’s _innocent_!” Baby Agnus insisted. While everyone was watching the young man in confusion, Prompto watched Mal. The general’s face had turned as white as the light above him, eyes widening in recognition of what was happening. “You need to issue a stay,” the boy went on.

Mal couldn’t resist butting in, trying to regain control of the situation. “Marshal, my brother isn’t the brightest, as you know. He fancies Mr. Argentum an idol of his, but I assure you, he is mistaken.” His retort was biting and bitter, meant to undermine Agnus’s claims. His younger brother flushed in the face of his sibling’s wrath, but held fast.

Cor looked back and forth between the two, perplexed and annoyed. “What is the meaning of this?” he huffed, in no mood for games.

“The boy is right, Marshal,” a gently accented voice interjected coolly.

Prompto felt his entire body lift like a marionette on strings as the Glaives’ heads swiveled towards the hanger door.

Ignis Scientia walked out amongst the crowd and into the path of the fluorescent bulbs, a halo of light encircling his head as he stepped forward. Prompto thought he had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. The blond pressed himself shakily to his feet, still holding the gun provided to him, muscle memory causing him to automatically click the safety on.

“After my initial visit to Formouth Garrison I did some more research into General Coluber and discovered some interesting things. Namely, multiple reassignments due to complaints of harassment by his peers of non-Lucian decent. The charges were all mysteriously dismissed without explanation, of course.” Ignis put both hands on the head of his cane, leaning onto it thoughtfully. Prompto felt his heart gaining speed, bumping against his ribs like a drum. “I knew upon speaking with Prompto that he was in distress and decided to see if I could glean any inside information on the base.”

From his vantage point, Prompto could see Ignis’s fingers gently rising and falling in a distinct pattern as he spoke. Unknowingly, he mimicked the pattern with his own, rapping along the pistol’s body.

 _Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap._ Ignis’s head tilted in the pause, searching. _Tap-tap-tap._ Unerringly, the tactician’s unseeing eyes found where Prompto sat in the stillness, and the drumming in Prompto’s chest vibrated throughout his entire body, a fearsome earthquake. 

“As luck would have it, when General Coluber’s younger brother was transferred to Fort Vaullery just prior to the so-called massacre, I suspected something was afoot and contacted him immediately. Young Coluber was reluctant at first, I believe due to threats from his brother. Eventually, he was convinced to tell me everything—including how the men here have been torturing the Niflheimian refugees and engaging in unspeakable acts.” He paused, faltering for only a moment, and the shadow of grief on his face let Prompto know that he _knew_. Agnus really had told him every last dirty detail.

Ignis cleared his throat before continuing, no one seeming to notice his moment of weakness. “I believe Prompto is innocent on all accounts, and that General Coluber and his men are truly to blame here,” Ignis said firmly, his voice filling the silence and resonating in the hearts of everyone gathered.

“These claims are ludicrous." Coluber’s voice was laconic, as if was merely amused at the drama unfolding with him at the center. “Clearly a ploy by desperate men.”

The atmosphere waxed thick with apprehension, men facing each other but not moving, at a standoff. Cor stood at ease, but his thumb rested on his katana. The glacial blue of his gaze felt like a death sentence of its own.

“An elaborate ploy, General.” Cor’s voice was just as nonchalant, but several of Coluber’s Glaives flinched back, eyes shifty. 

Perhaps sensing the web that was unraveling quicker now, Coluber scoffed loudly. “Surely you aren’t being swayed by this pitiful attempt at a bluff.” He looked at his brother for a moment and Agnus swallowed at the blank expression.

“It’s not a bluff,” Agnus said stubbornly. “I can access the security tapes.”

At these words, the Formouth Glaives fidgeted and muttered angrily amongst themselves. Mal’s face, if possible, went more taut and white with fury.

Cor didn’t react to the obvious discomfort of the guards. “General?” he said, in a voice so quiet it might as well have been a whisper.

For a moment, Mal’s lips pressed tight together, as if he was fighting back an inadvisable remark. “I assure you, Marshal,” he said. “My brother and Scientia are exaggerating in their claims. While some of the guards may have been overzealous at times, at no point did any of my men engage in acts of that kind with the prisoners.”

Silence fell, and for one breath, Prompto thought Cor had somehow fallen victim to the lies—convinced once again by the sheer force of Mal’s charisma. Then—

“Prisoners.” The single word, in Cor’s voice, dropped like a wine glass on a concrete floor. “General, I was under the impression that Formouth is a temporary resettlement facility for the safety of Niflheimian-Lucian citizens. The inhabitants are considered refugees and immigrants, not inmates.” His eyes held Mal’s in challenge. “Aren’t they?”

The scales were tipping, and everyone gathered knew it. Mal’s lack of reaction was confirmation enough. Cor turned to Agnus, calculating and cold. “Get me those security tapes.” Agnus gave a nod and Prompto felt as if he were careening on a tight-rope, body clenching in preparation for a fall.

“It doesn’t have everything—there weren’t cameras in the bath house or in my brother’s office—but there’s enough to convict them in the eyes of the law.” The boy took a step towards General Coluber. “Brother, _you’re_ the one who deserves to stand trial here, not Mr. Argentum.”

A thrill coursed through Prompto as he witnessed the baby-faced Glaive undergo a rapid transformation from an innocent child to a surefooted adult before his very eyes. There was no time to appreciate the evolution though, because if Prompto knew Mal, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

The air was becoming harder and harder to breathe, and it seemed like they were just waiting for someone to make the first move.

The Marshal met Prompto’s eyes in the standstill and it was like a lightning bolt across the sky, singeing Prompto down to his core. They held each other’s gaze. In that single look, Cor communicated his deep regret, the realization of just how close he had come to sentencing an innocent man—a _friend_ —to death, crashing down on him. A sorrowful nod of acknowledgment followed, a promise to make things right. Prompto held out a little bit longer, bitterness ebbing and flowing like the tide. Eventually he returned Cor’s gesture. He had received a second chance at life, and so should the Marshal.

The wordless transaction complete, Cor faced Mal and the Formouth Glaives.

“Come quietly, Malcolm. There’s no place to run.” Cor’s voice went low, a blatant threat. No one was backing down though, and Prompto knew bloodshed was inevitable, removing the safety on his gun with one subtle flick. He heard Carwyn’s voice in his mind saying _Think_ _!_

When the fight broke out, the men around Prompto appeared to move in slow motion, every action distinct and viewed in perfect clarity, but unable to be stopped. The Formouth Glaives were the first to jump, itching to flee, and they clashed with Cor’s squad, the ringing of metal clamoring. Cor stood front and center, a bastion of defense for his loyal Glaives, but he and Ignis were on the opposite side of the yard from Prompto, and Mal was already turning towards his intended target, one hand grabbing his younger brother while the other brandished his familiar dagger.

How things happened so slowly and yet so fast was a mystery to Prompto. Mal was barreling towards him like a runaway train, Agnus serving as the emergency brake as he dug his heels in, but Prompto knew just how strong the general’s arms were, and there was no stopping the man when he was on a mission.

Prompto raised his gun, but his hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was as if all his training went out the window any time Mal was staring him down, and he was too afraid he’d accidentally shoot Agnus to fire a bullet.

The large man was closing in quickly, and Prompto had to do something or risk being trampled.

“Iggy!” Prompto cried out, reacting on instinct. Even among all the other noise, Prompto could see Ignis’s head whip towards him and the former advisor began to move, dancing in and out of the skirmish with an ease most people couldn’t manage, blind or otherwise.

Prompto turned to run, dodging Coluber’s blade by a hair’s breadth as the general angled it towards him. Agnus was shoved aside as the general devoted his attention to his victim, giving a short shout as he crashed into the fence and fell.

Lungs burning from the sudden spurt of activity, Prompto dove to avoid another attack, but Mal was hot on his heels and managed to rip a hole in the blond’s jumper with his next jab. The tip of the dagger grazed his abdomen, leaving the faintest scratch. Prompto ended up tripping over his own feet in his rush to jerk away and he fired wildly in Mal’s direction, bullet zipping past the assailant’s head and into the sky. The general’s arm was coming down like a hammer and Prompto let loose an animal shout, twitching his head away at the last second to escape being impaled. Mal’s blade wedged into the earth where the sharpshooter had been seconds earlier, and Prompto rolled again, pushing up and sprinting to where he saw Ignis was running to meet him.

“Prompto?” Ignis called.

“Here! He’s behind me—”

With Ignis, everything came together seamlessly. Prompto found his anxiety falling away, the familiarity that came with months of fighting side-by-side steeling him. There would be time for talk later, he decided, but for now they had one goal—defeat Mal. The two moved in unison, Ignis drawing from Prompto’s energy to determine his position.

“Heads up!” Prompto went right and Ignis went left, General Coluber slicing at the space between the two. Ignis’s cane shot out, as dangerous as the tactician’s pole arm. Mal’s dagger met it and the two men struggled for dominance, Ignis tumbling through the air expertly to evade punches and knife points before regrouping with an attack of his own. While Ignis kept their enemy occupied, Prompto tried to find an opening. All he needed was one shot—but it was dark, and both Ignis and Mal were blurs in the night, too fast for him to track. A misfire was not an option.

“Iggy, fall back!” Prompto hoped that if Ignis broke away there would be enough separation for him to make a headshot without endangering his friend, but when Ignis jumped sideways, Mal leapt and tackled him with a guttural roar. Prompto gasped as he saw his friend hit the ground with the general on top of him, visions of his own experience rising to the surface.

“Oh no you don’t!” Prompto seethed, darting ahead. Ignis blocked a fist with one forearm, but the dagger was what Prompto was worried about, and it was rearing back in Mal’s hand. Taking aim, Prompto squeezed the trigger on the run, the ping of a bullet striking metal alerting him to his bullseye, the weapon in the general’s fist sent flying on impact. Now that Mal was unarmed, Prompto jumped onto the general’s back and gripped his hair like one would the reigns of a chocobo, pulling as hard as he could.

It had the desired effect—the general bellowed and arched, arms coming back to claw at Prompto as he toppled backwards.

The full weight of the general landed on top of Prompto, sending the wind out of him as his ribs bowed and cracked, but Ignis was freed and searched hurriedly for his dropped cane on hands and knees.

“Prompto?” he inquired urgently, checking his status, but Prompto was gasping, unable to respond as he scrambled out of Mal’s reach. While the sharpshooter was out of commission, Mal retrieved his knife and, seeing an opportunity to even the odds against him, crept as quietly as possible so as not to alert Ignis to his location.

“Ig—nis,” Prompto wheezed, using his forearms to drag himself forward as he lifted his gun weakly. The smallest movement sent shooting pain through his ribcage like an electric shock, and he struggled to maintain a steady hand. His friend had yet to find his cane just a few feet to his left, and Mal was stalking the former advisor with the precision of an experienced hunter, circling. Ignis would never hear him coming.

 _One shot—that’s all I need._ He tried to lift his arm, gritting his teeth through the agony, his limb jumping in space as he fought to steady it.

Prompto was still struggling to aim when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The Glaives were occupied in individual brawls across the lawn, but Agnus had been watching Malcolm and Prompto from where he had landed against the fence, and was now running in the direction of the general and Ignis, picking up speed.

 _Kid, stay out of this!_ Prompto wanted to say.

Mal was lost in the throes of battle and hadn’t noticed Agnus’s advance, but the younger brother and Prompto had both recognized Mal’s body language as he prepared to execute the signature move of the Kingsglaive—a dagger toss. Usually, it was accompanied by a warp, but the darkness had done strange things to magic, making it risky and unreliable to use, even for the experienced soldier. Even so, the strike was deadly on its own when done right.

Mal had lined Ignis up in his sights, and Prompto’s mouth couldn’t open fast enough to communicate the danger that was incoming. He swore he felt his heart stop when Mal let his dagger fly, somersaulting tip over handle towards Ignis’s head.

But Agnus had closed the distance faster than Prompto had given him credit for, and Prompto witnessed the result of his selfless deed in muted horror, the dagger sinking between the boy’s shoulder blades as he jumped to intervene, disturbingly smooth. 

Ignis sensed the body falling into him and adjusted, catching Agnus in his lap before he hit the ground. The young man had let out a single cry when the blade sank into his flesh, but now he inhaled rapidly in short cycles, pain and shock worsening the hyperventilation.

“Batholomew!”

“Agnus!”

There was a strangled sound, more gut-wrenching than an iron giant’s roar. When Mal fell to his knees, Prompto realized it had come from the general and not his own mouth.

Prompto blinked from where he was propped on his elbows, body protesting as he tried to take a deeper breath. Ignis moved aside when General Coluber ran over to scoop Agnus into his arms, hand reaching for his own weapon and hovering, torn. Ignis was on his guard with the general near, but he didn’t need to be—all the fight had gone out of Mal, rendering him static, rage dormant. Agnus looked at his brother from where he was cradled, eyes already filled with tears.

“What were you thinking?” Mal demanded. His tone was stricken and weak, foreign to Prompto’s ears. In the shadows cast from the limited light, he swore he saw the man’s shoulders shake with a quiet sob as he bent over Agnus, rocking back and forth.

This was the same man who had raped him. Beat him. Cut his wrists. Suffocated him. Threatened him and his friends. The same man who was trying to kill him now.

Prompto’s body rejected the image of the attentive sibling in front of him as a hallucination. It was a piece of a puzzle that simply didn’t fit in the larger picture he had composed of Malcolm Coluber’s character—a psychotic, bigoted murderer.

Agnus was crying, and Mal shushed him gently as Prompto wrestled himself into a seated position, one arm holding up the other, finally anchoring his dominant hand so that his pistol sat fixed in space.

He saw his opening.

“You—you have to stop this,” Agnus was saying, and Prompto tried to pull the trigger, but his finger was frozen in its half-curl.

_Shoot him. He deserves to die! Now’s your chance!_

Instead, Prompto watched with morbid fascination as Agnus lifted one trembling hand to Malcolm’s face to run it tenderly over the general’s jaw—the boy smiled.

“A doctor—where is the damned doctor?” Mal yelled, scanning the area with a crazed expression. Ignis, cane now in hand, stood nearby and listened with fierce concentration, stance indicating he would step in the moment Mal snapped.

The yard had grown quieter, several of the Formouth Glaives now rendered unconscious by Cor’s men, and the Marshal had turned his sights on Mal, sweeping across the expanse like a god of death, his katana as his scythe.

_Now, Prompto!_

Prompto tried in vain once more to get his finger to complete its small, yet important task. Once more, he failed, gaze lingering on Agnus’s pained face and the general slumped over him, utterly broken.

“General Malcolm Coluber, step away from the boy with your hands where I can see them,” Cor ordered. He stepped into Prompto’s line of fire, making the sharpshooter lower his gun.

The moment of truth had come and gone.

The general affixed his defiant glare on the Marshal, and for some reason seeing his tormenter’s face damp with tears made Prompto squirm uncomfortably. “You are wasting precious time, Marshal. Can’t you see that my brother is in dire need of a physician?”

Cor had his feet spread apart, katana held at shoulder-height in both hands, prepared to put his full strength behind his strike if Mal refused to cooperate. The other members of the Kingsglaive assembled from the shadows, flanking the Marshal in a show of solidarity.

No one spoke. Prompto could hear Agnus’s raspy breathing; his stomach clenched.

Something shifted in Mal when his brother let out an agonized whimper, and he started to stand with Agnus in his arms, making everyone tense in preparation.

“If my brother is seen to, I will come quietly.”

Cor nodded, but didn’t alter his footing. “Take him.” His clipped order was fulfilled by the Glaive nearest to him, the soldier stepping forward to receive the injured boy from the general’s arms. Mal surrendered him reluctantly, moving with the utmost care so not to jostle the dagger. True to his word, Mal put his hands up, his eyes trailing the man who now was responsible for his brother, even as Cor and several others came forward to restrain him. The general didn’t resist—he made no biting comments.

Agnus had stepped into his power just in time. Prompto wondered at the way of the world, and thought that if the gods were watching, they were probably laughing at him.

“Prompto?” Ignis’s call was a little softer, but still just as worried as before.

“H-here,” he coughed, the pain in his ribs turning into a deep throbbing as his adrenaline dipped.

Ignis made his way over to Prompto and knelt so they were on eye level. A surge of emotion welled in Prompto’s chest as his friend reached out his hand. Prompto took it in his, barely containing a sob.

“You are safe now,” Ignis claimed, firm and commanding, his ‘advisor’ voice as he and his friends liked to refer to it. It was a tone that inspired belief— _hope_. Prompto squeezed Ignis so tight that his fingers went numb, but the man didn’t recoil, patient and understanding.

“I believe I owe you an apology.” Prompto’s breath hitched at Ignis’s admission of guilt, and the Glaives flitting around them went ignored. “You were there for me in my time of need, yet I abandoned you in yours. I will never forgive myself for the atrocities you endured during your time here—for the doubts I held—the _lies_ I believed.” He shook his head in disgust, appalled. Prompto let the tears flow freely, unable to keep them at bay any longer. “I will spend the remainder of my days seeking redemption, though I know it will never be enough.”

Ignis pulled Prompto in then, and their embrace _burned_ , but in the way of sitting too close to a campfire—uncomfortably pleasant.

Prompto shoved his face into Ignis’s shoulder to muffle the sobbing that resulted, the floodgates of his heart opening to release the months of trauma that had left scars on his body and his soul.

Ignis merely held him, a hand brushing through his tuft of hair soothingly.

Malcolm had tried to break him—to _bury_ him.

But now, he could feel himself rising up from the ashes, shoots of green peeking through the earth—

Searching desperately for the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. Kicked. My. Ass. Seriously, I wrote one page and then got stuck with clunky plot mechanics, so I had a back-and-forth conversation with my editor (my wife) about how to go about writing out the fight scene. There were a lot of people and pieces in play that needed to come together, and add in it's FUCKING DARK OUTSIDE and I realized I had put myself in a sticky situation. Also, it's extremely difficult to write a satisfying 'end' to a villain without deus ex machina. We kicked ideas around for several hours, with me increasingly growing more frustrated when everything I came up with didn't seem to fit quite right. Around midnight, everything suddenly CLICKED, and I wrote the scene in a fury to get what you see now. 
> 
> The last chapter was called "Unanswered Prayers" because in it, Prompto prays to die, however, he is saved. I'm hoping someone clever might have caught on and knew Prompto wasn't going to actually shoot himself. (I apologize for all the distress and tears I might have caused.) 
> 
> "Mal was barreling towards him like a runaway train" ... a nice little reference to the "pain train" as Mysterious Bean has called this fic numerous times as Mal runs off the rails. 
> 
> Mal is not meant to be someone you sympathize with, however, he is still human, which is what his grief over hurting his brother is meant to showcase. (Don't worry, we're not quite done with him.)
> 
> I hope if you cried in this chapter, it was happy tears over Ignis and Prompto's heartwarming reunion. 
> 
> I recommend listening to "Uneven Odds" by Sleeping at Last, as it goes perfectly with this chapter. 
> 
> "Maybe your light is a seed  
> And the darkness the dirt  
> In spite of the uneven odds  
> Beauty lifts from the earth"
> 
> There will be at least one more chapter to wrap things up--this isn't quite the end! <3


	11. Take Me Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto must learn to adjust to life outside of Formouth, and certain days are harder than others.

He knew by the sound of Ignis’s footsteps that something had happened. They were staccato and quick, a drastic change from their usual languid cadence. The door to the bedroom swung open shortly after Prompto heard his friend enter the apartment, and he blinked up at him from where he lay in bed, shirtless and lounging in a pair of loose cotton pants. He hadn’t bothered to get up that morning, and he had lacked the energy to eat when he found Ignis already gone, pressing Kingsglaive business drawing him out of the residence before their usual breakfast time.

Ignis could tell Prompto was awake by the way the bed creaked with the shifting of his body, and he paused, hand on the doorknob, looking disheveled in the way only Ignis could be—perfectly put together without a single hair out of place, but with a gentle furrowing of his brows, trying to slow his uneven breaths.

“What’s wrong?” Prompto asked, sitting up.

“Have you seen the news this morning?” he countered with a question of his own.

“Nope.” Prompto swung his feet around and placed them on the floor, watching Ignis’s face for the subtlest change in his expression. Ignis let the silence stretch long, deliberating. Finally, he spoke.

“General Coluber was found dead in his cell—suicide.”

It should have surprised Prompto more, but in a strange way, he expected nothing less from Mal. It was sick irony that neither of them would relinquish their lives to others, accepting death only on their terms. Unable to cope with the punishment dealt to him, the general would rather kill himself than face judgement.

After a thorough six-month investigation led by Marshal Leonis the Kingsglaive was still unearthing new information tied to the abuse of Niflheimian refugees at Lucis’s three former Imperial bases. The announcement of Malcolm Coluber’s death sentence three months in hadn’t shocked anyone, although his younger brother, Bartholomew Agnus, had wept openly at the press conference.

Once Agnus had recovered from his injury, he led the way for the Marshal to unearth the mountain of evidence that would incriminate countless Kingsglaive. Without the young man’s guidance, hundreds of refugees would have continued to suffer in captivity out of the public eye. Currently, he was spearheading efforts to aid in their resettlement and had been promoted to captain.

 _I couldn’t have done it without you_ , Agnus had gushed during one of his visits with Prompto. Prompto wasn’t sure how to handle the praise, feeling that it was misplaced—after all, Agnus had nearly died because of him—but he enjoyed seeing the man smile nonetheless. 

One day, he would find the words to properly thank the boy, but in the interim he would have to settle for the new ink etched in flowy script along Prompto’s now healed ribs, chosen in Agnus’s honor. _You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed._

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Ignis couldn’t see Prompto’s blank expression or how the blond thumbed over the back of one hand pensively.

“One less thing to worry about.” Prompto shrugged, knowing he could never adequately sum up just how little Mal’s death impacted him. It didn’t matter if the general was six feet under—he still saw the Glaive every night in his nightmares, and he woke up screaming and drenched in cold sweat, Ignis rushing to his side to comfort him.

“He was a coward to the end.” Ignis was bitter and angry on Prompto’s behalf, fist gripping the doorknob so that it groaned. The blond shook his head, remembered Ignis wouldn’t see it, and forced a thought to the surface.

“If he’s a coward, then so was I.” He heard Ignis scoff in indignation. 

“There is no comparison—you were the victim of abuse. Coluber chose his own fate and decided to take the easy way out.” Prompto shook his head at Ignis’s rebuttal.

If Agnus and Ignis hadn’t arrived when they had, things would have ended very differently.

“What about the first time I tried?” Prompto pointed out, and Ignis quieted at the painful reminder.

The blind man walked over without giving an answer, found Prompto’s shoulder, and sat down. For a moment it seemed as if he might reply, but he was unable to put into words what he felt—the respect he had for what Prompto had endured, and the shame he clung to for contributing to his friend’s suffering. He allowed a hand to linger on Prompto’s arm. Prompto had only recently stopped flinching away when he was touched. The physical scars had faded, but the emotional ones still gaped, oozing and raw beneath his skin.

Slowly, Prompto was healing.

“Gladio and Iris were wondering if you felt well enough to have a small get together.” Ignis changed the subject carefully. “Gladio’s request for reassignment to Lestallum was approved, so he will be arriving in town shortly.”

Prompto thought back to the last time he had seen Gladio, shortly after he had been rescued from Formouth. He had learned from Ignis that Gladio had pushed hard for his release when he was first sent to the garrison, but that his requests for visitation had been denied, and that he and Ignis had fought about Prompto’s captivity any time they spoke, causing tension between them. When the giant of a man saw Prompto, he had hugged him _hard_ and then looked mortified when his friend doubled over in pain, the sharpshooter’s newly aggravated broken ribs preventing him from breathing normally for nearly a week after.

The King’s Shield hadn’t left Prompto’s side during his recovery— _I should have been there for you,_ he’d said. Gladio saw to his every need while Ignis helped Cor handle the fallout and chaos that resulted when General Coluber’s crimes were brought to light. The Kingsglaive experienced a massive overhaul, gutted from the inside out by Marshal Leonis himself.

_Good riddance._

When Gladio inevitably returned to his duties at Angelgard, he made sure to text Prompto regularly, even sending him the occasional book recommendation. He was trying to bridge the gap, even though it had grown vast between them. Prompto tried as best he could to match Gladio’s effort, but it was tiring, and there would be weeks he wouldn’t answer, the anxiety of just trying to craft a response preventing him from acting. Gladio never stopped sending messages though, and Prompto learned to smile at the shirtless selfies with their inane captions.

 _Another day in paradise_. Gladio posed in the forest on the island of Angelgard, a camp of disgruntled looking Glaives (all fully clothed) in the background. He saved that one to his phone.

Prompto considered Ignis’s proposal. “Sure,” he agreed. He hardly said no to anything Ignis suggested, but the quick response made Ignis tsk skeptically.

“Are you certain? We needn’t rush it if you’re not ready.”

“No, it’s fine. It will be good to see them.” That much was true, at least, although he would have to grin and bear the repeated questions about his health, and if he was eating right. He’d never fully regained all the weight he had lost, making him gaunt and paler than ever before, a skeleton of his former self.

Ignis was working on it, though—he’d shove food at him at any opportunity. At first, Prompto would try to sneak food into the trash when he didn’t feel like eating, but Ignis had served as an advisor to Noctis and wasn’t easy to deceive. He’d had to deal with the prince dumping his vegetables off on others for years. Prompto would find a new plate in his room after the fact, or an extra helping at the next meal, and he finally got the hint, shoveling down every bite without protest, even as his stomach stretched and threatened to burst.

“Cindy and Cid mentioned coming for a visit as well, though I told them I’d run it by you before deciding.”

Prompto felt a little guiltier at the mention of the Hammerhead residents. They had come to visit him in Lestallum’s hospital as soon as they’d received word he was alive and well (relatively speaking). Cindy had cried when she saw him, her accent thicker than he'd heard before as she babbled into Prompto’s shirt about how grateful she was he had survived, having believed him dead as soon as Mal had taken him away.

Prompto didn’t feel deserving of their love and attention.

Sometimes, he wished he _had_ died in Formouth. Living proved to be much harder.

When the doctors had finally released Prompto into Ignis’s care under specific instructions—what and how much to eat, how to care for his wounds, and red flags to look for if his mental health wavered—they reestablished a daily routine. Ignis would ensure Prompto had three square meals a day, that he was bathing and cutting his hair, and that he got _some_ semblance of exercise, even if it was just a walk around the block. Prompto went through the motions, each day a little easier than the last, but there was still an emptiness inside him that he couldn’t fill.

Prompto knew there was one person who could, but there was no telling when or if he would see him again.

He tried to achieve a sense of normalcy, at least for Ignis’s sake. Initially, Prompto’s sense of betrayal had been so strong that he fought Ignis on everything—from showering to what they would have for lunch—but eventually, Ignis’s patience and determination won out. Ignis never once complained when Prompto snapped at him, or treated him unkindly, or slammed the door in his face. He merely continued to serve and care for him with quiet grace each day, unwavering.

“I refuse to abandon you again—whether you like it or not,” Ignis had said after Prompto had purposely dropped a glass on the floor, shards scattering in every direction. He’d watched as Ignis crawled on the kitchen tile, hand sweeping lightly to find every tiny piece.

Prompto had cried later when he apologized.

The tactician was doing his best to make amends, and Prompto saw how the man’s guilt weighed heavy on him when Ignis thought Prompto wasn’t watching.

One evening, Prompto overheard Ignis speaking on the phone in the living room, voice hushed to not attract attention. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, only intending to use the bathroom and crawl back into bed, but he caught a snippet of conversation and paused in the hallway to listen. 

“…absolutely not, to offer that to him would be preposterous,” Ignis was saying, accent flat and smacking of irritation. A moment later: “Marshal, he may appreciate the sentiment, but extending an invitation to return to the Kingsglaive? He suffered under _our_ care. To invite him back into its ranks is tasteless at best, and cruel at worst…”

Prompto decided he could do without hearing the rest, shuffling into the bathroom noisily so that Ignis quieted. He turned on the showerhead to mask the sound of his sobs.

_Noctis, I’m trying to be strong, really I am, but the world needs you._

_I need you._

* * *

It was August thirtieth.

Prompto didn’t think he could get through the day with a smile plastered on his face—not this time—but Ignis knocked on his door when he didn’t get up for breakfast, and he knew he would have to at least try. The one benefit of living with a blind man was that he didn’t have to fake happiness in his expression, but Ignis had a keen ear. He knew every fluctuation in Prompto’s voice, easily discerning his true feelings from what he tried to pass off as real. It was exhausting.

“Hey Iggy.” Prompto went for neutrally cheerful to start, testing the waters.

“Good morning.” It was a habit for them to stick to social timelines of morning and night, even without the sun. Some habits died harder than others. “Gladio has invited us over this evening. I felt it would be good for all of us to be together—especially today, of all days.”

 _Oh gods—_ it was a punch in the gut that Prompto wasn’t expecting, and suddenly he was spiraling, unable to breathe in or out.

“Prompto?” Just as he knew the many intonations of Prompto’s speech, Ignis was also able to read his silences. “Please.” Ignis’s voice adopted a vulnerability he didn’t often show. Prompto studied him then, sharing in the pain that they both felt. “I, too, lost Noctis. I know it is painful, but I believe he would want us to keep our spirits up in his absence.”

Prompto blew out the air that had grown stagnant in his lungs, then sighed. Ignis was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any less difficult.

“All right,” he said, reluctant.

“I’m baking a cake. I could use your help.” Ignis’s lips pulled up, and Prompto mirrored his smile to the best of his ability.

“You want _my_ help? The situation must be pretty bad then.”

“Indeed— _dire_ , one might say.”

“Well, I _guess_ I can lend a hand,” Prompto mused, dragging out the syllables to make it seem like it was a great burden when it was anything but.

“I am forever in your debt.” Ignis weighted the words a little more heavily than intended. Prompto, having regained some of his kindness, pretended not to notice.

The blond clapped his hands, rubbing them together for emphasis. “Let’s get cooking!”

* * *

Prompto fidgeted as he stood in front of the door, holding the cake pan with both hands. As he bounced, the chain hanging from his jean pocket jingled. Ignis, standing beside him, nudged Prompto gently, sliding a hand into the pocket of Prompto’s leather jacket to bring him back to stillness.

“Sorry,” Prompto muttered. He left off the rest of the sentence. _I’m nervous as hell._

“It’s quite all right.” Ignis’s voice was like a caress, and Prompto felt some of the tension bleed out of him, knocking against the door with the toe of his boot.

There was the sound of movement from within, a muffled pair of footsteps and a deep voice that yelled, “Coming!” Moments later, the door swung open, and Gladiolus Amicitia grinned down at his two visitors, arms spreading wide.

“Hey! Long time no see.” Gladio wasted no time in sweeping Prompto up in a bear hug—cake and all—the blond’s feet dangling, and squeezed hard enough that the man’s spine cracked.

“Nngh—heya big guy,” Prompto sputtered. When Gladio set Prompto back on solid ground, he turned to embrace Ignis, clapping him firmly on the back.

“Come on in, dinner is almost ready. Can’t say it’s as good as Iggy’s, but I picked up a few tricks out in the wilderness,” Gladio explained as he ushered him in to the modest apartment. They followed their host through the foyer and into the kitchen, and Prompto found himself smiling despite his anxiety as he listened to Gladio and Ignis’s familiar banter, setting the cake they had brought on the counter.

Gladio had just pulled a round of beers out of the fridge and was popping the tops off when a head of brown hair swooped around the corner to peer into the room. Iris gave Prompto a dazzling smile when he pivoted to meet her gaze. He couldn’t help but chuckle as she ran into the room, and he braced himself to catch her as she flung herself at him.

“Prom! Oh my gods, it’s been _months!_ ” she crowed. Gladio and Ignis both laughed as Iris pulled back, and the young woman ran her hands along Prompto’s slender frame, frowning. “Iggy, are you feeding him? He’s still so skinny! You can’t have put on more than fifteen pounds since you got out of the hospital.”

“Hey,” Gladio chided, sipping his beer. Prompto raked fingers through his hair sheepishly, a flush coloring his cheeks.

“As it were, he’s a bottomless pit.” Ignis looked amused.

“I would be too if I had you as a cook.” Iris groaned. “Ignis, can’t _I_ come to live with you guys? All Gladdy makes is meat and potatoes—or noodles.” They all laughed at that, the sound reverberating warmly.

Prompto studied Iris, thinking that she seemed taller since he saw her last. She had given herself an undercut in the traditional Kingsglaive style when she finally joined on her eighteenth birthday, but she had been letting the hair on top grow out, which was currently pulled into a messy bun. The young woman was starting to look more and more like Gladio every day, bare arms toned with muscle she had put on from all the training she had been doing with her brother. Prompto was glad to see her thriving.

“Actually, joke’s on you kid—I made sushi,” Gladio boasted, and Ignis’s eyebrows rose. “Y’know—I figured Noct would like it,” he added, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Gladio’s guests, a pregnant pause following his explanation. Iris, bless her, wouldn’t let the mood drop for long.

“Hey, do _I_ get a beer? Since it’s a special occasion and all?” She was already heading for the fridge, and Gladio put his hands on his hips, obviously wanting to say something big brotherly, but faltered. Iris pulled out a bottle and raised it up in question, looking hopeful. Gladio gave in with a sigh.

“All right, but just one.”

They gathered around with their drinks in hand, everyone pitching in to set up the table. “Here Prom,” Gladio said, handing the blond the plates and utensils. Prompto moved to help, thankful to have something to do with his hands. While he arranged the place settings, Ignis set out the dessert, removing the lid on the container to reveal the cake he and Prompto had baked from scratch. Prompto had been the one to decorate it, _Happy Birthday Noctis_ written in gray icing at the center, his attempt at a cat drawn below the words.

“Not bad,” Iris lauded, and she bumped her hip against Prompto’s affectionately as Gladio assisted Ignis in carefully inserting candles into the frosting. Finally, Iris produced a tray of sushi from the fridge and set the platter beside the cake, all of them assuming their seats.

“Looks good, big guy,” Prompto complimented, automatically placing rolls on Ignis’s plate for him. Ignis inclined his head slightly in thanks, the rest of the group serving themselves.

Iris clapped her hands together and cooed. “Thanks for the food, Gladdy!” There was a chorus of appreciation as they dug in.

“Well done,” Ignis said after his first couple bites.

“High praise,” Gladio joked, elbowing Prompto with a grin. Nerves now at baseline, Prompto attempted some banter of his own. 

“Yeah, he’s not spitting it out so that’s at least a three-star rating.” Ignis tutted at Prompto’s cajoling, but he was smiling, pleased. The alcohol combined with his approval made Prompto blush pleasantly.

Conversation slowed as the four busied themselves with eating, but the atmosphere remained light, if not bittersweet. Any time Prompto’s eyes fell to the cake he would take another sip of his beer, fighting back emotions that were like hands around his throat, choking him.

 _You can get through this,_ he thought. If he could get through Formouth, he could survive anything.

They demolished the sushi, not even a speck of rice remaining when they finished, and they all sat back in their chairs, full stomachs making their pants feel tight and uncomfortable. Gladio groaned a little, putting his hands behind his head.

“That hit the spot.”

“Thank you, it was wonderful,” Ignis agreed.

There was a lull as they sat in mutual appreciation of each other and the meal they had shared. Prompto’s mind flashed back to a starry night, frogs and crickets providing background music to conversation, four friends gathered around a campfire. He gripped the bottle in his hand, condensation dampening his palm.

“Shall we sing happy birthday and cut the cake?” When Ignis spoke, it was if all other sound was sucked out of the room, leaving only his voice. Gladio swirled his beer idly as Prompto stared down at the table, the blond peeling the label on his bottle, an anxious habit. The mood flipped on its axis, growing somber.

Prompto was remembering another August thirtieth, several years prior, when he had snuck into Noctis’s room at the Citadel before sunrise.

_Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Noooooct—_

_Nngh—you couldn’t wait until I was awake?_

_Rise and shine, buddy! We’ve got celebrating to do!_

Gladio had taken the lighter on the table and was illuminating the candles one by one. Prompto stared into the flame, lost in memories. When Iris started to sing, he couldn’t bring himself to join in. He listened to the layered harmony of his friends serenading and his heart ached. When the silence inevitably returned, no one moved to blow out the candles—wanting to hold on to nostalgia just a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yeah, so you know how I said this would be the last chapter? I'm a liar. Started writing and it got way longer than anticipated so I decided to break it up. Hope no one is too disappointed.  
> \- It is painful irony that Coluber escapes the justice he deserves by committing suicide while in captivity, but it also reflects how deeply broken and disturbed he was. This is meant to draw parallels with Prompto's own suffering and struggles. Two sides of the same coin. Suicide is complicated and messy, and Prompto knows this better than anyone.  
> \- I love P!nk's song "Walk Me Home" for this chapter.


	12. Better Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I've been down, I've been down_   
>  _Burning up like fever_   
>  _Better days, better days_   
>  _Are not so far away_   
>  _I've been lost, I've been found_   
>  _Now I believe in_   
>  _Better days, better days_   
>  _Are not so far away_
> 
> \- "Better Days" by Hedley

They all jumped when there was a knock on the door, and Prompto’s pulse began to race, inexplicably terrified. The irrational fear that someone had come to take him away snaked its way into his mind, and he found himself reaching to clutch Ignis’s arm for support.

“Were you expecting a visitor?” Ignis asked as Gladio got to his feet. His hand slid reassuringly over Prompto’s.

“Nope. Iris?”

“Don’t look at me!” Iris shook her head as Gladio grabbed the knife meant to cut the cake and stepped quietly to look through the door’s peephole. After a few seconds, he set the knife down and slid back the deadbolt, opening it.

“Agnus,” Prompto exclaimed, blinking in surprise. He almost didn’t recognize Bartholomew in civilian’s clothing, seeming out of place as he stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved into his pants’ pockets. The young man had recently gotten a buzz cut, expressions even more animated now that they weren’t hidden behind a mop of hair. His brilliantly green-gold eyes widened as Gladio glared down at him in question, and the Glaive gulped.

“Mr. Amicitia—sir—sorry to bother you at home, but I’m…" Agnus had peered past the large man into the kitchen, eyes meeting Prompto’s, then taking in the cake and Iris and Ignis sitting beside him. “Oh— _oh!_ Forgive me for intruding.”

“Who did you say you were?” Gladio leaned against the door frame, arm overhead, looming over the stranger in a menacing fashion. Agnus shrank back.

“He’s a—” Prompto stopped before saying _friend_.

“—a member of the Glaive,” Ignis finished for him. His hand still rested comfortably over Prompto’s, and the sharpshooter found he didn’t hate it.

“Oh.” Gladio paused as if suddenly realizing something. “ _Oh_ , you’re Agnus, right? We spoke on the phone. I’ve seen you on the news, but you look different with the new ‘do.”

The worried look on Agnus’s face was immediately replaced with one of his beaming smiles, relief reflected in his eyes. “Yes, that’s right. If this isn’t a good time though, I could come back—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Besides, the gang’s all here. Might as well talk now.” Gladio stood back to allow Agnus entrance. The boy bobbed his head in a show of thanks as he filed into the kitchen, standing to the side as if he wasn’t sure whether it was acceptable to sit. Prompto watched as the wax from the still-lit candles began to drip onto the cake, unsure why his heart continued to beat rapidly.

“All right, well, I won’t take up much of your time.” Agnus’s fingers were twitching at his sides. “As you know, I’ve been placed in charge of the refugee resettlement efforts, and I’ve been having difficulty recruiting Glaives to help. They seem spooked, understandably so, considering all the media attention on the subject.” The boy clasped his hands in front of him, practically dancing from side-to-side. It was making Prompto feel unsettled, his leg bouncing up and down beneath the table as he listened. “More troubling is that working with the refugees has been…slow going and difficult. They are reluctant to trust me, seeing as…well.”

_Seeing as he’s Malcolm Coluber’s young brother._ Prompto’s stomach lurched, threatening to throw up all the sushi he had just eaten. Ignis applied gentle pressure with his hand, sensing Prompto’s distress in the way his muscles tightened.

“So, the reason I’ve been in contact with you both—” Prompto looked at Ignis quizzically. “—is because I would like to formally invite you to be a part of my task force. All of you.” Agnus looked at Prompto pointedly, and it was like being shoved under the showerhead in Formouth’s bath house all over again—unbearably hot, then freezing—a painful paradox. 

Prompto’s mouth had gone dry, and he searched for words as everyone turned to him. “I’m…I’m not a Glaive,” he reminded them.

“Which is exactly why you would be suited for the job. The refugees trust you—it will be easier for them to listen to someone who looks like them and knows what they went through.” Agnus was talking excitedly now, pressing forward even as Iris and Ignis both winced in response to his ideology.

“I got them killed,” Prompto said, quieting. The room was spinning, the flames from the cake suddenly brighter in his vision.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Agnus insisted stubbornly, drawing closer. Prompto leaned away, pulse thundering against his eardrums. “Besides, this could be your chance—to use your experiences for good.”

Prompto sat stunned, mouth half-open.

Gladio rose from his chair so fast that it rocked back on its hind legs. When he slammed his hands down on the table, it rattled, several of the candles extinguishing from the wind he created.

“Where the _hell_ do you get off saying shit like that?”

“P-pardon?” Agnus recoiled from the strength of Gladio’s rage. Ignis had gone eerily still, and Iris glanced between him and her brother in panicked wonder. The blind man raised one hand towards Gladio, an unspoken order. The Shield’s jaw clenched, but he held back, allowing Ignis to take the lead as Prompto stared blankly ahead, Ignis’s voice ringing in his ears with perfect clarity.

“Bartholomew, if I may—what you are trying to accomplish is admirable. However, I believe it requires a certain tact that, through no fault of your own, you are lacking.” Agnus hung his head, clearly discouraged. Ignis continued, gentler this time. “The task you face is daunting to say the least. Not only are you attempting to right a terrible wrong done to a traumatized people, you must do so in the shadow of your brother’s legacy, their oppressor. You have a kind heart. All of us here want desperately for you to succeed in your endeavors—but I would caution you to work from empathy, rather than sympathy.” Agnus lifted his gaze, eyeing Ignis with newfound curiosity, enthralled. Ignis’s face turned in the boy’s direction, blind eyes pale and piercing.

“Prompto is not a tool, or a means to an end. Your pity—for him, or any of the other refugees—is meaningless. What they require is understanding, for someone to sincerely care about their wellbeing and happiness. To restore their humanity.” 

Listening to Ignis speak was like a key turning in a lock. Prompto hadn’t realized he had started to cry, a streak of tears trickling down both cheeks. Agnus saw the blond’s stoic expression and bit his lip, realizing he had crossed a line.

“Yes, of course. My apologies—it was never my intent to offend anyone.”

Gladio had sat back down with a huff, and he crossed his arms, biceps bulging. Iris fiddled with a napkin, not wanting to get caught in the emotional crossfire, yet struggling to maintain her composure as she witnessed the exchange.

“I would be happy to have your assistance, but of course it would be on your terms. Obviously, there is much I need to learn, but I want to do right by the Niflheimians. To atone for my brother’s sins,” Agnus admitted. Prompto shut his eyes and took a staggered breath.

“Your brother is dead, Bartholomew. However, those who survived him are still suffering. If you put them first, I believe you will find all the help you need.” Ignis pulled his hand away from Prompto’s, and it was like static electricity dancing over his knuckles. The blond felt his lungs burning with rapid inhalations, a tingling sensation in his toes and fingers.

_I need to get out of here._

Prompto started to run before anyone could react. It wasn’t until he had slammed the door behind him that he heard startled shouts, Ignis and Gladio the first to respond. The blond fled the apartment, sprinting down the street so that he was just a blur in the night, alarmed pedestrians jumping out of his way as he zipped around corners without warning. He didn’t stop until he made it all the way back to Ignis’s apartment, slumping against the door as he gasped for air.

Gladio and Ignis found him there some time later, shaking with sobs that he tried to hide by pressing his face into his knees. There were no reprimands, just a pair of strong arms lifting him as Ignis ushered them inside. Once Gladio had gotten Prompto situated in his bed, he and Ignis stepped into the hallway, speaking low enough that their friend wouldn’t hear their concerned tones and whispered worries. Eventually, Gladio said his goodbyes, promising to call in the morning.

Prompto felt Ignis’s fingers intertwine with the thick strands of hair on top of his head. His sobs had devolved into sniffles, and he allowed Ignis to rub his temples, soothing the headache that resided between them.

“It’s all right. You are safe now.” It was the same thing Ignis had told Prompto at Formouth Garrison, and Prompto felt his body convulse, nuzzling his head into Ignis’s thigh. There was a gentle pat, then fingernails scraping lightly over the blond’s scalp. “Rest, Prompto,” Ignis murmured.

“Don’t go.” It sounded weak, and Prompto immediately regretted saying it out loud, but Ignis was soon pulling him into his arms for an embrace, foreheads pressed together.

“I promise—I am not going anywhere.” There was an unfamiliar intensity in Ignis’s tone, and Prompto hesitated before laying his head on the man’s shoulder.

“…thank you.”

“What for?” Ignis hummed.

“For…” Prompto shrugged, at a loss. “Everything. For being here. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

Prompto was quiet, feeling the rise and fall of Ignis’s chest against his. He let his thoughts go unsaid, but he knew Ignis would understand. They eased back onto the bed, finding comfort in the closeness.

_Noct, I haven’t been the greatest friend—but I’m learning. Lucky for me, I’ve got the best advisor to teach me._

When Prompto slept, he dreamed peacefully through the night—

Waking to firm arms encircling him— _safe_.

* * *

_Shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half sorrow._ It was something Prompto started to learn as he began to reopen his heart to others.

He started helping Ignis cook in the kitchen, the act of creating something wonderful from nothing a sort of therapy for them both. One morning, he got up before the blind man and made breakfast, surprising him. Prompto hadn’t seen Ignis smile so big in years—brighter than the sun.

He finally got around to reading one of the books Gladio recommended—then started a text message thread that had them staying up into the night and early morning, gushing over plot points and characters. Gladio overslept the next day and was late to report to duty, and Prompto had apologized profusely, only to receive a laughing face emoji with the message: _Worth it._

He allowed Iris to drag him to train with her. _You’re closer to my size than Gladdy is, and he’s so impatient!_ They’d gone through one set of hand to hand drills before the sharpshooter had to stop, breathless and dizzy from months of inactivity. He persevered despite his body's protests though, and by the end, they were both sore and sweaty, laughing on the ground. The next time, he taught her how to shoot, and was surprised to find the sound of bullets firing didn’t make him flinch as bad as he thought it would.

There were still bad moments—there always would be—but one day at a time, things got better.

It had nearly been a year since _that_ day. The one that had started it all. Prompto knew the anniversary was coming because it had happened shortly after his birthday, which was rapidly approaching. He sat at the kitchen counter, a half-full coffee mug in hand, the steam curling up around his face as allowed himself to get lost in thought.

_Tap-tap-tap_.

Prompto lifted his head with a smile, clinking his metal spoon three times on the rim of his cup in response to the noise.

Ignis padded out from the shadows of the hallway, as silent as a coeurl on the prowl. Sound was a courtesy in their apartment. They both knew how to be discreet, but Ignis always wanted to know where Prompto was—for peace of mind—and Prompto always told him. The blind man came to sit on the stool next to him, inhaling the scent of the coffee. Prompto slid the mug into Ignis’s hands without hesitation and watched as his friend brought the drink to his lips.

“Couldn’t sleep, I take it?” Ignis wondered. He knew whenever Prompto got up in the middle night. It amazed the blond how much he noticed when it came to him.

It was true—Prompto hadn’t slept. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“Would you like to discuss it?”

Ignis was patient in the silence. He knew Prompto would answer when he was ready.

When Prompto brought his palm to the scar on Ignis’s face, the blind man startled. Coffee sloshed in the mug, spilling onto the counter.

“Sorry—”

Ignis caught Prompto’s hand when he tried to yank it away, setting the drink down slowly.

“Quite all right. You just caught me by surprise, is all.” Prompto had never initiated contact since returning home from the hospital, not even for hugs, even though he had come to accept physical affection from his friends without experiencing panic attacks. Ignis continued to hold Prompto’s hand to his face, and Prompto relished in the warmth of the man’s skin pressing into his palm, swallowing hard.

“Iggy?” Prompto’s voice had become small, a drop of water in the ocean.

“Yes?”

“When…you went blind—when we lost Noct—how did you keep going?” It ashamed Prompto to say he had never bothered to ask Ignis about his feelings, even after all this time. A man’s heart was too heavy a burden to bear, let alone two, and yet—

_Shared sorrow is half sorrow._

Ignis peeled Prompto’s fingers away, intertwining them with his own on the table between them.

“It was difficult, as you well know. Somedays it seemed utterly hopeless, but I found my reason to live in the ones that I love. Even now, as we await the True King’s return, I hold onto the belief that all of us will be together again.” Ignis’s hand clenched and unclenched, mirroring the flutter of Prompto’s heart.

“I think I’m going to help Agnus,” Prompto said. He immediately felt lighter, unburdened by the decision he had been presented with in Gladio’s apartment. “I know it won’t be easy—and that it will probably hurt like hell, but I’m not the only one who has been suffering. If I can help lighten someone else’s load, I think I should. It’s what Noctis would have done.”

Ignis nodded, and there was pride in his voice as he answered Prompto’s declaration. “We will be with you every step of the way.”

Prompto, leaning his head back to keep fresh tears from falling, smiled.

“I know.”

_Ever at your side._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by BumuBokkusu [HERE](https://boomboxigrade.tumblr.com/post/187994589481/i-drew-some-fanart-for-my-new-all-time-favorite)

**Author's Note:**

> There is so much I want to say--first of all, thank you to all my readers and the people who encourage and inspire me everyday to write--I wouldn't be here without you. And a HUGE thank you to my wife, who edited and was the first to read every single chapter. 
> 
> This started out as a vague idea in a conversation and evolved into an amazing week-long whirlwind of writing that even I wasn't fully anticipating. Thank you everyone for your comments, kudos, and feedback. It is very much appreciated.
> 
> I love the songs "Better Days" by Hedley and "The Reason" by Hoobastank for this chapter. My full playlist for this fic can be found on Spotify [ HERE](https://open.spotify.com/user/12133346137/playlist/1dU8IqgZ5lFyXjAPR9KsS9?si=idjQvvTARPyIcKYoHcs4kg)
> 
> If you would like some fluffy bonus content, check out[ “The Angel Who Lives in the Dark,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054128/chapters/47492020) which is a one-shot that continues from the end of this story!
> 
> History repeats itself--unless we make an effort to stop it. 
> 
> Please consider donating to victims. Here are just a few organizations that can help with:  
> \- Suicide, [ AFSP ](https://afsp.org/)  
> \- Rape/Sexual Assault, [ RAINN ](https://www.rainn.org/)  
> \- Refugees/Immigrants, [ RAICES ](https://www.raicestexas.org/)
> 
> Don’t be shy! I respond to all comments and welcome all fanart. Feel free to talk to me directly on Tumblr @hard-noct-life and Twitter @HardNoctLife
> 
> Don't forget, if you are living in darkness, better days are ahead. Walk tall, my friends.


End file.
